


The Prisoner of Azkaban as told by John Watson

by Spinning_In_Infinity



Category: Harry Potter - Fandom, Potterlock - Fandom, Sherlock - Fandom, johnlock - Fandom
Genre: Harry Potter - Freeform, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Potterlock, Sherlock - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-23
Updated: 2014-06-23
Packaged: 2018-02-05 23:05:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 25,937
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1835500
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spinning_In_Infinity/pseuds/Spinning_In_Infinity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Potterlock third instalment. There's a killer on the loose, but that's not all that's going down at Hogwarts. John's feelings for Sherlock grow stronger by the week, there's a new teacher who Sherlock is sure is hiding something, and Molly has a secret admirer. Rated mature for lovely lovely slash.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_As John slowly pushed open the door that led to Sherlock’s bedroom, he was met by gentle candlelight – shadows dancing on the navy walls. The double bed set against the centre of the far wall was clothed in a deep blue silk and white fluffy pillows. It looked so inviting. . ._

_“Sherlock?” John’s voice sound small in the wide room. He stepped forward and heard the door click shut behind him. He didn’t have time to turn round before a pair of thin, strong arms wrapped around him from behind and lips brushed against the side of his neck._

_“John,” the smooth voice of his best friend whispered in his ear, sending a shiver right down his spine. He lifted one hand and laced his fingers in Sherlock’s silky curls. He felt Sherlock’s hand slip under the hem of his T-shirt, his fingers warm against John’s stomach as he stroked the soft flesh there. John turned in Sherlock’s arms and lifted his chin to press his lips against that perfect cupid’s bow he’d dreamed of kissing since he first realised his feelings for his friend. Sherlock’s hand moved to cradle the back of John’s head and deepened the kiss. For someone who’d had no previous experience with physical affection, he was so good at it that John’s knees felt weak. He clutched at the back of Sherlock’s shirt and the two of them stumbled backwards until John’s legs hit the bed, and they tumbled down in a tangle of limbs. John’s fingers fumbled at the buttons on Sherlock’s shirt, almost ripping them in his eagerness to expose the pale skin of his chest. He ran his hands over the smoothness underneath, and Sherlock moaned against his mouth as he slipped his own hands down the back of John’s jeans._

_“Sherlock, I. . .” John whispered in his friend’s ear as Sherlock ran his warm tongue along his jaw-line to nibble his earlobe. He squirmed a little as Sherlock chuckled, his breath tickling the sensitive skin around his ear._

_“Time to wake up, John,” he said._

“What? No—” John protested, but Sherlock was already shaking his shoulder, his voice growing louder as the candlelit room faded around them. . .

“Time to get up,” Sherlock said – the real Sherlock – standing by John bed and mercilessly shaking his shoulder.

“Go away,” John said miserably, burying his face in his pillow.

It had been two weeks since he’d come to stay at Sherlock’s house, and his dreams were getting annoyingly frequent. They were wonderful while he was asleep, and pleasant as he roused, but when he was actually awake and conversing with the real Sherlock Holmes, they were nothing short of torture.

“Breakfast,” Sherlock said. He was still in his pyjamas (John had learned that, when at home, Sherlock never dressed unless he was planning on actually leaving the house) and silk navy dressing-gown.

John swung his legs out of bed and followed Sherlock from the spare bedroom in which he’d been sleeping since he’d arrived. It was a fairly comfortable room – plain white walls and a cream carpet with pale blue furniture and a queen-size iron-post bed – and made a nice change from his springy single mattress back home. The Holmes residence was in a village called Tanglewood Hamlet – a small collection of wizarding families built away from the neighbouring Muggle towns. It was a three-story, four bedroom detached house with an extensive back garden and a small orchard of pear trees beyond the back gate.

The kitchen was a large room with a wide fireplace and a long table stretching down its centre. Walby, the Holmes family’s ancient house-elf, was stirring a large pot on the stove. John had received quite a surprise when he’d arrived at the house and been greeted by the strange little creature. He was less than three feet in height – though Sherlock claimed that was fairly tall for his kind – with bat-like ears and a very large hooked nose and sagging skin, making him look like a plucked vulture. In a tea-towel. For his unsavoury appearance, however, he was a good-natured thing, and absolutely doted on Mrs. Watson, who he seemed to see as nothing short of royalty.

“Would Master John like some porridge?” he asked in his raspy voice – he sounded like John’s father did after he’d had his tonsils removed. “Or there is eggs and bacon?”

“Eggs and bacon, please,” John said, sitting at the table, and the elf shuffled off to the pantry.

“So what’s the plan for today?” John asked Sherlock, who was helping himself to some porridge.

“Well,” he said, sitting down on opposite John. “We – that is to say you and I – are going flying.”

John nearly choked on the glass of orange juice he was drinking. “B-but you h-hate flying.”

“I hate Quidditch,” Sherlock said, with a sneer at the word. “Flying itself’s not so bad.”

“I don’t like heights,” John said tensely. ‘Don’t like’, was quite a bit of an understatement. The thought of placing sufficient distance between himself and the ground with nothing but a stick for support made the sweat break out on his forehead.

“You don’t have to go high,” Sherlock said, seemingly indifferent to John’s terror.

Walby pushed a plate of toast, bacon and two fried eggs in front of John, who found he’d rather lost his appetite. He’d never told Sherlock about his fear of heights – he wouldn’t like Sherlock to think of him as weak any more than was necessary – but he had a feeling that, even if he did, Sherlock would find a way to make him mount a broom. He half-heartedly ate his breakfast and let his mind wander back to the dream he’d been enjoying – more than he probably should have been. He could still feel the ghost of Sherlock’s lips on the side of his neck, and his skin tingled as he recalled how his fingers had felt against the flesh of his torso. He looked up at the real Sherlock, whose attention was fixed on his breakfast bowl. His lips looked slightly chapped and his fingernails had specs of dirt beneath them. He was rougher around the edges than the Sherlock in his dream had been, yet he looked just as perfect.

Once Walby had cleared away their plates, Sherlock clapped his hands together and stood up.

“Right,” he said briskly. “Get dressed and I’ll meet you in the orchard in about thirty minutes, okay?”

No! John thought in panic, but didn’t get a chance to answer before Sherlock left the room, his dressing-gown flapping behind him.

“Oh, God. . .” John dropped his head forward into the table and groaned. He was going to look like a total prat in front of Sherlock – the last person he wanted to think of him as a fool.

“Master John does not like flying?”

John turned his head to the side and saw Walby looking at him as he dried a plate on a cloth.

“No,” he said. “I don’t like heights. I hate them. They scare the hell out of me.”

Walby’s ears twitched and he looked thoughtful.

“Walby thinks he knows a way to help, sir,” he said.

John sat up a little. “Really?” he asked, hopefully. “How?”

“Master Mycroft and Master Sherlock have many brooms, sir,” Walby said. “They are all fast and go to great heights, but there is one they do not ride – they say it is too slow, sir – but Walby keeps it because it was Master Siger’s.”

Siger Holmes was Sherlock’s father. From what John had seen of the family photos in the house, he greatly resembled Mycroft – they had the same chestnut-brown hair and beak-like nose, while Sherlock took after his mother much more. They both had inky-black curls (though of course Violet Holmes’s was now streaked with grey) and full, angular mouths. While John could not see Sherlock’s pale blue eyes or defined cheekbones in either of his parents, he imagined they must have come from another family member – a grandparent perhaps.

“The broom is a very old model, sir,” Walby continued. “A Jetstream 200. It was Master Siger’s grandfather’s and so it flies at a leisurely pace.”

“Right,” John said. “Where is it?”

“Walby keeps it in here, sir,” he tottered to a thin cupboard beside and the stove and pulled a slightly dusty broomstick out of it. The handle was thicker than most of the brooms John had seen, and there was even a small padded saddle fastened just above the tail. Even John, who knew next to nothing about brooms, could tell it was a very outdated model. But if it was slow and would not take him high, it didn’t matter.

“Thank you,” John said, taking the broom from Walby and smiling at the elf. “Thanks a lot.”

“Walby is happy to help,” Walby said with a deep bow.

Broom clutched in his arms, John left the kitchen and made his way back up the stairs to his room. Halfway along the landing, a door opened and Mycroft stepped out, John almost barrelling right into him.

“Oh!” he said in a surprised squeak. “S-sorry.”

Mycroft looked down at him with an expression cold enough to freeze the Sahara desert, before John stepped meekly aside to let him pass by. How could someone look so intimidating in a dressing-gown and house slippers? From the very first day John had stepped in the house, Mycroft had not spoken a word to him and barely condescended to look at him. Sherlock said it was because he had a rather archaic-style attitude towards Muggle-borns, which was unfortunate as there was nothing John could do to rectify it.

John hurried back to his room to wash and dress and rake a comb through his hair. It had grown somewhat since last year and become quite thick, and was currently sticking up at the back like a bird’s nest. He wetted it down and set to brushing his teeth. His hair was not the only thing that had grown since the holidays started – he was delighted to find that his hormones were finally starting to kick in, and he’d grown a good inch or so. He was changing in other ways too – though his change in voice-pitch was choosing to be less constant than his height. Sherlock found the occasional squeaks in John’s voice highly amusing, as his own had managed to change quite smoothly.

It was closing on forty minutes when he reached the gate to the orchard at the end of the garden. He could see Sherlock standing a little way beyond, leaning against a tree. There were four broomsticks hovering four feet from the ground in front of him. They all looked very streamlined and quick – clearly top of the line. John stepped through the gate and walked up to him, tightening his grip on the handle of the Jetstream 200.

“There you are,” Sherlock said testily. “I was beginning to wonder. What’re you holding?”

“Walby gave it to me,” John said.

Sherlock looked at the broom and snorted. “Father’s old Jetstream? Not much for speed, and it’s only got a height of about three metres.”

“That’s fine,” John said quickly. “Walby offered it to me and I. . . well. . . I didn’t want to hurt his feelings.”

“Don’t be silly,” Sherlock said, gesturing to the brooms levitating obediently beside him. “Choose one of these. Got a Cleansweep Ten here – best broom after the Nimbus. Or a Comet Two Sixty? Not as good for speed as it looks but it’s got good agility.”

It was slightly strange hearing Sherlock spouting off all this broomstick jargon like it was a shopping list, and for a moment John was compelled to laugh.

“No, really,” he said, eyeing the brooms like they were bucking broncos. “I’ll stick with this one. It’s. . . got a nice saddle.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and grabbed the handle of the Cleansweep Ten. “Suit yourself,” he said, picking up a small bundle from the ground and removing the cloth. He strapped the saddle round the shaft of the broom and tightened the buckle. It was a lot smaller than the one on the Jetstream, and John considered it lucky Sherlock was so skinny or else it might have been uncomfortable.

“Some men prefer to go without,” he said. “But personally I’m not a masochist.”

John laughed and Sherlock swung his leg over the broom. He copied him, rather awkwardly, and sat himself in the squashy saddle. He noted that the broom now seemed to be supporting itself underneath him, and was vibrating slightly.

“Right,” Sherlock said, pulling on a pair of brown leather gloves and throwing some to John. “You did the lessons with Madam Hooch in first year?”

In truth, when John had learned they were to be submitted to flying lessons, he’d thrown himself on Professor McGonagall’s mercy and explained his fear. Thankfully, she’d been lenient and allowed him to spend the time studying instead.

“Uhh,” John glanced nervously at the handle quivering beneath his fingers. “Yes. Yes, of course. But. . . remind me?”

“Sure,” Sherlock grinned. Thankfully, he still hadn’t quite noticed that John was working himself into a state of mental collapse. “Just push off from the ground with your feet, pull the handle up to go higher – which won’t be much with that old thing – lean down to descend, and just steer left or right depending on where you want to go.”

“Right,” John said with a fake grin. “Good. Great. Excellent.”

“Alright then,” Sherlock said, pushing off from the ground with his feet and raising some ten feet in the air. John took a moment to admire how natural he looked on a broom. It was probably just as well Sherlock wasn’t a Quidditch fan – if he made the Ravenclaw team the girls who still had crushes on him might explode.

“Come on,” he called, and before John could say anything more, he shot off like a rocket through the trees.

“Ohhh. . .” John whined to himself and gripped the broom handle like a vice. Screwing his eyes tightly shut, and bounced up and down slightly on the balls of his feet, willing himself to push himself from the ground. After a three or so minutes, he took a deep breath and pushed off as hard as he dared. The sensation of having no ground beneath his feet was not really a pleasant one, and he opened one eye just a fraction to look at the grass below. He was only a few inches aloft – he could probably still touch the ground with his foot if he stretched – and this made him a tiny bit more confident. He sat up a little straighter and flexed his hands around the wood between them. The broom bobbed a little in the air as he pushed down on the saddle, and he leaned instinctively leaned forward to steady himself.

Unfortunately, it wasn’t a wise move.

The broom, while not particularly fast – as Walby had promised, was nonetheless faster than John wished to go while sitting astride an oversized stick with a cushion attached to it. He clutched onto the handle as it bobbed merrily between the trees, John only just managing to steer it. Why anyone would want to do this for a living – and on something ten times faster – was completely beyond him.

Then, as he avoided another tree, he overbalanced and fell with a dull thud on the grass. The broom, which didn’t seem to have noticed its passenger had taken temporary leave, flew into the trunk of a tree and dropped to the ground as well, where it rolled rather pathetically for a moment before lying still.

“John?”

John rolled onto his back and looked up to see Sherlock gazing down at him.

“What on Earth are you doing?”

“Cloud-gazing,” said John.

“Where’s the Jetstream?”

“Oh, somewhere there. . .” John said, gesturing vaguely to his left. “We, uh. . . didn’t get on.”

“Well, what can you expect?” Sherlock sighed. He dropped down off his Cleansweep and propped the Jetstream against the tree it had fallen by. “Probably not even safe to ride.”

“Great,” John said.

“Here.” Sherlock went to the other brooms, still waiting patiently where they’d started, and picked up the Comet Two Sixty. “Take this one. It used to be mine before Mother got me the Cleansweep.”

Oh God, John thought as Sherlock held the flashy broom out to him. “No,” he whimpered, then realised he’d said it aloud.

“Problem?” Sherlock asked, looking puzzled.

“Sherlock,” John sighed and gave in. Sherlock would probably think him a loser anyway if he tried to ride the Comet and broke both his legs. “I can’t. I can’t ride. I. . . I hate heights. Terrified of them. And I hate flying,” he added grumpily.  
Sherlock looked at him for a moment, and then burst out laughing. John felt his face go crimson, and made a prayer to whatever gods that might have been listening for the ground to swallow him up. But instead of launching into a sarcastic speech on how pathetic his friend was, Sherlock held out a hand and hauled him to his feet.

“Why didn’t you say so, you idiot?” he rolled his eyes.

“Well. . . I kind of did. . .” John said, but Sherlock was already busying himself with another one of the cloth packages he’d brought from the house. He moved the saddle he’d fastened for himself up the handle and fixed a second behind it.

“What’re you doing?” John asked nervously.

“We won’t go too fast, and I’ll stay fairly low to the ground,” Sherlock said. “It’s fun, John, really.”

Anything that Sherlock Hard-To-Please Holmes deemed ‘fun’ was enough to make John reconsider, even only slightly. Besides, the thought of being so close to him was bait enough – the two saddles didn’t exactly leave much legroom.

“You promise,” John said, pointing a finger at Sherlock, “that you’ll go slowly?”

“Yes, yes,” Sherlock said.

“No, I mean it, Sherlock,” John said seriously. The smile faded a little from Sherlock’s face.

“Yes, John, I promise,” he said.

“Okay,” John said, and waited for Sherlock to mount the broomstick.

“You’re in front,” Sherlock prompted him after a minute.

“Oh,” John flushed, and hastily mounted the broomstick. The vibration was a lot less on this one, and he suddenly felt self-conscious of how big his rear must look from behind. Oh shut up, stop being such a girl, he mentally scolded himself – all thought flying clean out of his mind when he felt Sherlock’s spry weight behind him.

“Right,” he said, reaching his arms out below John’s to grip the handle just in front of John’s saddle. Innuendo ahoy, John thought. Like if they made a Carry On Quidditch film. Sherlock edged a little closer, his chest pressed right up against John’s back, his chin resting on his shoulder.

Oh – holy – Jesus, was all John could bring himself to think now.

“Now relax,” Sherlock said. His voice right beside John’s ear made him jump. “Relax,” Sherlock repeated, and pushed gently off from the ground. John immediately panicked and gripped the handle for dear life. Luckily, the broom seemed to think Sherlock far worthier of obeying and didn’t go speeding off.

“You’re okay,” Sherlock said. He was speaking as though to a frightened child or wounded animal. John never knew he could be so gentle. It certainly calmed him down a bit, and he even relaxed his grip.

“Now, slowly,” Sherlock said, and lifted the handle of the broom a fraction of an inch. The broom set off at a steady, even pace, only a foot or so from the ground.

“See?” Sherlock said, a smile in his voice. “Not so bad, is it? Now, bit higher?”

John’s stomach contracted and he shook his head violently, almost head-butting his pilot in the nose.

“Okay, okay,” Sherlock sighed.

For the next ten minutes, they glided around the orchard at the same pace and height. John had to admit that when he wasn’t crippled by fear, it was rather enjoyable. After a bit more coaxing, he even let Sherlock steer higher, until they were level with the tops of the trees.

“You won’t fall,” Sherlock promised, and he began a gentle swerve across the field. John’s heart was pounding – more more than one reason. He was still a little apprehensive, but he also had butterflies from the way Sherlock’s breath whispered against the side of his neck when he spoke. The way his lean body felt against John’s, and how his curly hair kept brushing against his cheek, was almost enough to make him turn round and kiss him without thought to any consequences – to their friendship or their bones.

They flew for a good while, John growing less nervous – even going so far as to let Sherlock rise to the height of the chimney. There were no Muggle towns round for miles, so there wasn’t any danger of being spotted. Sherlock was right – it was fun. In a scary, adrenaline-rushing kind of way.

“Well,” Sherlock said as they touched back down to Earth. John’s knees felt rather wobbly, but he managed a brave smile. “That wasn’t so bad, was it?”

“Mm. Thanks,” John said. “Don’t think it’s gonna be my favourite hobby, though.”

Sherlock chuckled and began to collect the brooms together, handing John the Jetstream and a Cleansweep Five to carry. As they made their way back to the house, John walked a couple paces behind Sherlock and took the opportunity to stare at him. He admired his strong yet elegant jaw-line, the straightness of his nose, and the length of his dark eyelashes. He contained a sigh and smiled.

Today was a good day.


	2. Chapter 2

It was the day before they were due back at Hogwarts, and John and Sherlock were spending it atop a high hill near Tanglewood under the shade of a large beech tree. Dusk was closing in, the baking heat having faded to a gentle hum of dark gold light with a faint breeze ruffling the leaves above. John was sprawled out on his front across the grass, his eyes poring over The Standard Book of Spells, Grade Three, and Sherlock was propped against the beech trunk, a small battered novel in his hands. The book was actually one of John’s own that he’d brought from home, and one of his personal favourites – The Crystal Cave by Mary Stewart. It had been his mother’s when she was young, and told the tale of the young wizard Merlin and the infant King Arthur. John had been dumbstruck to discover that Merlin had actually existed in real life – unbeknownst to Muggles, who merely thought him a legend – and his adventures with Arthur may have more basis in fact than he’d once thought. 

Sherlock was not a great reader of fiction, Muggle or otherwise – the majority of his bookshelves consisted of old family spell-books and magical histories – but he seemed quite absorbed in The Crystal Cave. It was a shame wizards didn’t own televisions or video players, or John would have very much liked to show him some of the Arthurian films he’d grown up with.

Turning the last page, Sherlock set the book down on the grass beside him and stretched his arms above his head. The light around them shone in shades of green and gold, and John could make out flecks of amber-brown in his dark hair. 

“What time did your mum say she was getting back?” he asked his friend, who shrugged nonchalantly.

“Some time after dinner,” he said. “Don’t worry, we’ll get back in time.”

It had been a week since Mycroft had come bursting through the kitchen fireplace (a form of wizard travel that still made John jump in surprise when it happened over breakfast or dinner) with the news that a notorious murderer, Sirius Black, had broken out of the wizarding prison, Azkaban. John had never seen him so ruffled – he’d almost looked scared.

Since news broke out of Black’s escape, all families were advised to not allow their children to wander off alone or stay outside after sunset. This led John to wonder if Black was a vampire.

“D’you reckon they’ll catch him?” he asked Sherlock, who couldn’t have any doubt of to whom he was referring.

“Possibly,” he said, not exactly comfortingly. “Nobody’s broken out of Azkaban before so he’s certainly a slippery character.”

“How long had he been locked up?”

“Twelve years,” Sherlock said. “I don’t envy him.”

“Why would you?” John snorted. He thought – and knew Sherlock was too – about the Azkaban guards Sherlock had told him about – the Dementors, and the horrifying fate that awaited Black upon his capture.

A sudden gust of cold swept over the hill and John shivered. The sun was sinking to just a dark orange line on the horizon.

“Come on,” Sherlock said, tucking The Crystal Cave in the pocket of his jacket and rising to his feet. “It’s getting cold.”

They half-ran down the hill and were both laughing breathlessly when they reached the bottom. The Victorian-style lamps were already glowing amber as they walked down the street. The news of Black’s escape had had a noticeable effect on the village’s inhabitants – almost every house had their curtains drawn or the shutters closed, and the sounds of merriment that could usually be heard from the local pub, The Witch and Wand, was subdued.

“You there!” a loud voice called from across the square. A tall man in a dark red cloak was walking towards them.

“Mr. Lestrade,” Sherlock greeted him. 

“You should not be out this late, boys,” the older wizard said severely. He had a good-natured face that was lined with worry. “Not with that maniac still on the loose.”

“Sorry, sir,” John said. “We were just heading back.”

“I’ll walk with you,” Mr. Lestrade said, withdrawing his wand from his belt and keeping it in his hand as they walked back through Tanglewood. John wished he wouldn’t – it made him feel uneasy.

“All packed and ready for tomorrow?” Mr. Lestrade asked conversationally as they passed by the pub, glancing down the narrow alleyway that ran alongside it.

“Yes,” John said.

“My boy Greg’s still got half his trunk spread about the house,” Mr. Lestrade clicked his tongue disapprovingly. 

Walby opened the door just as they were walking up the front path to the house. He was holding a large wooden spoon in one hand and was looking oddly disapproving at his young master.

“Mistress Violet strictly instructed Masters Sherlock and John to be home before the sun set,” he said, waving his spoon rather threateningly at the two boys. “It is not safe to be out late with the criminal Black still free.”

John had to suppress a smirk at the tiny creature’s displeasure and, from the looks of it, Sherlock was doing the same.

“Forgive them, elf,” Mr. Lestrade said, clapping a hand on the boys’ shoulders. “They’re home now.”

Walby sniffed. “Dinner will be ready in ten minutes,” he said haughtily, and hobbled off back to the kitchen.

Mr. Lestrade gave a chuckle, bid the boys farewell, and trudged back down the road with his wand still in hand.

 

The next day, as Sherlock and John passed through the barrier to Platform Nine and Three-Quarters, they were almost engulfed in a billow of steam from the scarlet engine waiting for them. Mycroft had enlisted the aid of a posh Ministry car to get them to King’s Cross, having pulled a couple of strings at work. John had been impressed by the magically enlarged interior of the vehicle, and they’d arrived at the station with twenty minutes to spare.

They met Molly in an empty compartment and dragged their trunks up onto the luggage rack. Then, as the train started to move off, the door slid open again and another boy stepped in. He looked to be a year or so older than them, with short, dark brown hair, and was already wearing his Hufflepuff robes.

“Okay if I sit here?” he asked Molly, who nodded and he sat down, propping his upended trunk against the wall. John suddenly recognised him as the boy they’d shared the coach with back to school last Christmas, but he also reminded him strongly of someone else. Sherlock was also staring intently at him. 

“You’re Gideon Lestrade’s son,” he said.

“You should know,” Lestrade snorted. “We’ve lived in the same village since we were born, Holmes.”

“Must have overlooked you,” Sherlock shrugged, and turned his attention to the now rapidly moving landscape. John smiled apologetically at Lestrade, who raised an exasperated eyebrow back.

“I’m John,” he said, holding out a hand which Lestrade shook. He had the shame good-natured face as his father, though without the stress-lines.

“Greg,” he replied. He looked at Molly, who was reading a small paperback book by the window. “You’re Molly Hooper, right?”

She started, surprised he knew her name, and smiled. “Yes,” she shook his hand too. “Nice to meet you.”

Molly had changed quite a bit over the summer. She was taller, her brown hair longer, and her body was starting to look more like that of a teenage girl than it had last year. The childish freckles were fading from her face and she was starting to look quite pretty. Lestrade obviously thought to too, John thought with amusement, as he kept glancing over at her as the train rolled on. He even offered to pay for her snacks when the lunch trolley came round. She accepted gratefully, but unfortunately for Lestrade she didn’t seem to look upon this gesture as flirtation. Indeed, she spent the first part of the journey trying to prise answers from Sherlock about his summer and what he was looking forward to this term. Sherlock, true to form, kept his answered clipped and far between, until she eventually gave up and returned to the pages of her book.

The day wore on, and just as John was starting to think there couldn’t be much further to go, the train began to slow down, before stopping with just a jolt he was nearly catapulted into Lestrade’s lap, and Molly’s trunk nearly decapitated Sherlock, who managed to stop it just in time with a flick of his wand.

“What’s going on?” Molly asked, closing her book and peering out of the window. “I think there’s someone out there.”

Sherlock squinted through the rain-spattered glass and John saw the blood leave his face, leaving it even paler than usual.

“What’s wrong?” John asked, alarmed.

“I think they might—” he started to say, but at that moment the lights in the carriage went out, plunging them into almost total darkness.

“The hell?!” John heard Lestrade get to his feet. Then he promptly sat back down again with a sharp gasp, and John could tell why. It was like a fog of invisible cold had descended upon them – it was filling his chest and head with a numbing sense of hopelessness.

“What the hell’s going on?” Lestrade asked, sounding scared.

John could hear Sherlock’s teeth chattering beside him, his breath rising in misty clouds. Molly gave a whimper in the darkness, and John reached out to take her hand.

“Argh! Something grabbed me!” Lestrade yelped, and John fell back against his seat, his forehead damp with fearful sweat. Next to him, he could hear Sherlock breath coming in ragged gasps and felt for his hand instead. To his relief and comfort, Sherlock gripped tightly onto his fingers like a frightened child. The sense of despair was growing inside John’s chest, like a poison gas creeping into every pore of his body.

Then, as his eyes grew accustomed to the gloom, he saw it – something tall and dark, draped from head to toe in a long, black cloak. It paused outside the door, turning its head slowly from side to side. For one heart-stopping moment, John thought it was going to step right into their compartment. He wasn’t the only one – he could feel Sherlock’s whole body trembling, and Lestrade had his arms around Molly, his face shining with sweat. What was this thing? Eventually, the shape decided to enter, not their compartment, but the one on the opposite side of the aisle, where it paused to slide open the door. It breathed in deeply with a noise like a death rattle, and John heard someone inside the compartment fall to the floor. In the semi-darkness, John saw a pale face with dark hair and a pair of round glasses. He was twitching horribly, like he was having some sort of seizure, and John felt a sickening sensation of fear in his stomach as the cloaked monster moved closer. Then, an older voice said loudly, “None of us is hiding Sirius Black under out cloaks! Go.”

John could just about see the silhouette of a tall man with his arm extended, his wand pointed at the intruder. The creature ignored his command, so he muttered something under his breath and a haze of silvery light appeared from the end of his wand. The creature shied away from it and hastened back down the aisle, out of sight.

It was about three minutes before the lanterns came back on, and the coldness the creature left in its wake faded. John, breathing deeply, looked around at his companions. Lestrade was practically cradling Molly in his arms, who was shaking like a leaf, and Sherlock was ashen white, his fingers quivering as he detached them from John’s.

“What in the name of Merlin was that?” Lestrade gasped as he and Molly straightened up.

“Dementor,” Sherlock said quietly.

“That was a Dementor?” John asked. 

Sherlock nodded.

“D’you have any Chocolate Frogs left?” he asked, nodded at the pile of sweet wrappers on the seat beside John.

“A couple,” John said, fishing around and finding three.

Sherlock gave two to Molly and Lestrade, and broke the third in half for himself and John. “Mother says it helps,” he said, when the other three gave him confused looks. He was right. By the time the atmosphere on the train was almost back to normal, while still a bit shaky, John was feeling miles better.

“So they think Black would just be sitting calmly on the train?” Lestrade scoffed, swallowing the last of his chocolate. “D’you reckon the Ministry ordered them to do it?”

Sherlock shrugged. “My brother said they were going to be guarding the school this year,” he said. 

“Because of Potter?” They all glanced into the opposite compartment, where Harry was starting to come round. John saw the tall man handing out chunks of chocolate to everyone.

“Sirius Black’s been on the Muggle news,” Molly said. “I didn’t know he was a wizard.”

“My dad says he’s a maniac,” Lestrade said. “Killed loads of Muggles several years ago.”

“Why?”

“Why? ‘Cause he’s a nutter,” Lestrade snorted. “He was You-Know-Who’s henchman. And now he’s after Potter ‘cause of what he did to You-Know-You.”

Molly sighed. “Doesn’t seem he can ever get a break, can he?”

The Great Hall was comfortingly warm when they finally reached Hogwarts. Almost everyone was discussing the Dementor’s appearance on the train, and John could hear Draco Malfoy crowing to his Slytherin cronies – including his closest lackeys: Crabbe, Goyle and Moriarty – about how Harry had fainted on the train. 

“He’s such a tosser,” Lestrade said disdainfully. “Bet he wasn’t so cool on the train.”

Lestrade left their group to join his housemates at the Hufflepuff table, while John, Molly and Sherlock sat down with the Gryffindors. Nobody batted an eyelid at Sherlock’s presence there, though a couple of the Ravenclaws gave him distasteful looks at his lack of House pride.

The Sorting seemed to go on for much longer than most people’s stomachs would have preferred, but they still had to wait a little longer to fill them, as Professor Dumbledore made the usual notices – this year highlighting the presence of the Dementors around the castle that year, and secondly introducing the new members of staff. These included the man they’d seen on the train, Professor Lupin, and the gamekeeper Hagrid, who’d been appointed as the new Care of Magical Creatures teacher. That certainly explained the slightly bizarre choice of literature John had been instructed to buy – The Monster Book of Monsters. From what he’d heard from Harry, Hagrid had a penchant for dangerous animals. Once Dumbledore was finished, John piled his plate with piping hot chips, steak, peas, and a large pool of gravy. Everyone was hungry, so there wasn’t much talk until they were helping themselves to seconds. John laughed with Dean and Seamus, sitting opposite them, about the summer, before helping themselves to trifle, treacle tart and chocolate gateau.

John and Sherlock parted ways at the Grand Staircase – John right to Gryffindor Tower, Sherlock to Ravenclaw. They were both tired, and John was very pleased to change into his pyjamas and fall into his plush four-poster bed, breathing in the smell of clean linen and lavender from a small pouch a house-elf had placed under his pillow. Even the memory of the Dementor on the train could not quell the satisfied feeling John had as he closed his eyes, the sound of the rain pattering softly on the window lulling him into a deep sleep.

 

The first week of term was rather manic, even by Hogwarts standards. Most of the students and staff seemed on edge, partially because of Sirius Black, and partially because of the Dementors lurking at each entrance to the school grounds. While they were far away enough not to cause any real disturbance, the knowledge of their presence and the gloomy mist that now surrounded the grounds was distracting enough. Malfoy was still relishing in the fact that Harry had been so badly affected by the one on the train, but the Weasley twins, Fred and George, had also taken to reminding him of how he’d come running into their compartment gibbering like an idiot, which seemed to pacify him for a while.

There was also a sense of excitement in the wake of the third years’ new classes. John had signed up for Care of Magical Creatures with Molly, Harry and Ron, and Muggle Studies with Seamus and Dean. Hermione, who’d taken every subject available, was also going to be present. The third years had been split into two groups per each House, depending on which subjects they’d chosen, so first lesson on Monday, John accompanied Dean to Muggle Studies, while Sherlock went to Arithmancy, and Molly, Harry, Ron and Hermione climbed to North Tower for Divination.

Muggle Studies proved to be quite a surprisingly interesting subject. Professor Burbage started the lesson by explaining about how the divide between Muggles and wizards had first arisen – when the wizarding officials decreed it too dangerous for the wizarding community to converse their secrets to the Muggle population, some time closely following the end of the sixteenth century. However, she stressed that Muggles were not so different from wizards in their talents of industry and technology – something which clearly baffled some of the residents of the class who’d grown up in a purely wizarding environment. For the first term of the year, they were going to be focusing on electricity, and how it benefited the lives of Muggles. They were set the task of searching their books for examples of electrical gadgets used in Muggle homes, just as a fun little exercise. For John and Dean, this was rather like asking a published writer to list ten words beginning with the letter S, and they completed their list in ten seconds flat.

Molly was looking rather nervous when John caught up with her in the corridor on the way to Transfiguration, and she explained to John about Professor Trelawney’s sinister predictions in regards to Harry’s future, and the omen of death she’d seen in his tea-leaves. John was starting to feel a little alarmed himself, before Professor McGonagall calmly but firmly expressed her cynical views on the subject of Divination, and explained Professor Trelawney’s habit of foreseeing the death of at least one student a year. By the time the bell for lunch came, they were all feeling substantially more comforted in the question of Harry’s health – aside from a Lavender and Parvati, who seemed to have taken what Trelawney had said as gospel.

John knew Sherlock would be coming out of Charms, so made his way to the fourth floor to meet him. As he was climbing the third staircase, he got caught up in a stampede of Hufflepuff sixth years, and ended up dropping his bag, some of his books spilling out onto the steps. He sighed heavily and knelt down to pick them up, only to find someone already doing so.

“Here,” the person stood up and smiled, holding out Intermediate Transfiguration, Magical Theory and A History of Magic to their owner. Tall and slender, dark-hair, grey eyes, straight nose – Cedric Diggory really was a sight to behold.

“Thanks,” John said, shoving the books back in his bag and smiling at Cedric. He’d often noticed the Hufflepuff Seeker in the corridors – him and most of the female population of Hogwarts – as it was pretty hard not to. Not only was he handsome, but he was also a Prefect and such a nice guy it was impossible not to like him.

“You okay?” Cedric asked.

“Yeah,” John nodded, hoping he hadn’t been gaping.

“Cool,” Cedric gave him a pat on the shoulder and headed off down the stairs. “See you around.”

John stood staring after him as he went, until the staircase jerking into a different direction brought him back to his senses. A year ago, what he was feeling might have scared him – certainly confused him – but he now knew there wasn’t any harm in fancying Cedric. He doubted he was the first closeted student to do so. It wasn’t the same as how he felt about Sherlock – it was warm and fuzzy in comparison to the torturous passion he felt for his best friend – and it wasn’t an unpleasant sensation. It was refreshing to know he could feel stuff like this for someone other than Sherlock. It proved that he wasn’t a lost cause. If he could crush on Cedric, he could crush on another boy – someone who might even return his feelings rather than expressly repel romance of any kind like Sherlock did.

Feeling emotionally enlightened and quite a bit happier, John met Sherlock in the Charms corridor and they headed off to the Great Hall for lunch.

“You seem happy,” Sherlock said suspiciously, while John hummed to himself as they sat down.

“Hmm. . . what?” he asked, taking a large gulp of pumpkin juice.

“Your cheeks are flushed, you’re humming and you keep smiling,” Sherlock said, a sly grin playing about his own lips. “Someone find themselves a flame?”

“Maybe,” John said ambiguously, delighting at the narrow-eyed look of curiosity on his friend’s face and helping himself to casserole. “We’ll see.”


	3. Chapter 3

John couldn’t sleep that night. His mind was dancing. His feelings for Cedric – juvenile and lukewarm though they may have been – were something of a liberation. It was like an entire world of possibility had been opened up for him, full of potential romance and – dare he hope? – boyfriends. He was even starting to lose that desire to be straight that had harboured inside him since he realised his feelings for Sherlock. He knew who he was and what he wanted. True, what he really wanted was rather unattainable (for Sherlock to proclaim his undying love and devotion to an adoring, applauding crowd), but this was certainly a start.

He gave a happy sigh and turned over onto his side, bringing his knees up beneath the duvet, one arm under his pillow. He allowed himself to imagine Cedric’s face, kind-hearted and handsome, behind his closed eyelids. He envisioned a moment when they were alone together – perhaps in an empty classroom or in a secluded corner of the castle grounds – and Cedric was smiling at him, his hands reaching out to cup his face, his lips drawing closer. . .

_John’s breath caught in his throat as he felt Cedric’s soft lips touch his own. He wound his arms around the older boy’s waist and hugged him, as Cedric lifted him gently from the ground and placed him on the bed beside them. Cedric nuzzled the skin at the crook of John’s shoulder, and the thirteen-year-old breathed in the scent of his new boyfriend – he smelled like fresh air and sweet, perfumed soap._

_“Cedric. . .” he whispered, and his heart raced as Cedric captured his lips again in a kiss. A warm glow spread throughout John’s body, and he felt a telltale hardness develop beneath his robes. Cedric chuckled._

_“Getting excited?” he asked in his smooth, mellow voice._

_“A little.” Cedric pinned John’s wrists above his head with one hand and John laughed. “What are you doing?”_

_Cedric loosened the tie around his neck and used it to bind John’s wrists together, straddling John’s hips and holding him in place with his soft weight._

_“We’re waiting for our guest,” he said. “Wouldn’t want you running away before he gets here.”_

_“He. . .?” The door to the room opened and close, and John craned his head to look at the new arrival. “Sherlock!”_

_His best friend was standing there, arms folded, a crafty smirk on his face._

_“Been having fun?” he asked John’s playful captor, who was still preventing John from moving (not that he was complaining)._

_“Just getting started,” Cedric grinned, and began to undo the fastenings on John’s robes. Sherlock walked slowly to the side of the bed and knelt down beside it, his face level with John’s._

_“Enjoying yourself?” he asked._

_John didn’t know how to answer, but was spared thinking of a reply when Sherlock kissed him. His lips were as different from Cedric’s as air is from fire – Cedric’s kiss was warm and gentle, Sherlock’s was full of a passion that send shocks through every inch of John’s body. He moaned and wriggled beneath Cedric as the older boy got to work on his jeans, through which the sizeable lump was now startlingly noticeable._

_Sherlock moved his mouth to the tender spot just below John’s ear, worshiping the skin there with his lips and tongue, and just as John thought he’d died and gone to heaven, he let out a loud gasp and bucked his hips into the warm wetness that was Cedric’s mouth. The Hufflepuff drew his lips tantalisingly slowly to the tip of John’s erection, before engulfing him in that wet heat again, and John thought his brain might explode from the pleasure of it._

_“I think he likes it,” Sherlock said._

_“Mmm,” Cedric affirmed, and the vibration of his voice against John’s shaft sent a warm rush to the base of his spine._

_“Sherlock,” John gasped, fighting at the bonds restraining his wrists._

_“Shall we set him free?” Cedric asked, raising his head._

_“Oh, I don’t think so,” Sherlock said offhandedly. “Let’s have a bit more fun, shall we?”_

_Cedric smiled. “Yes, let’s.”_

_John felt the Hufflepuff’s strong-fingered hands tugging on the waistband of his jeans, pulling them down over his hips and off completely, flinging them into a corner of the room. He now felt horribly exposed and squirmed in embarrassment, his cheeks flushing crimson._

_“Aww, look at him,” Cedric chuckled and John heard the sound of a zip being lowered. His heart started pounding and he felt a knot of nerves form in his stomach._

_“W-wait!” he stammered as Cedric discarded his own jeans and knelt at the end of the bed, lifting John’s legs so they rested on his broad shoulders._

_“It’s alright,” Sherlock purred, teasing one of John’s nipples with his finger and thumb. “We won’t hurt you.”_

_“Never,” said Cedric compassionately._

_Sherlock tossed Cedric a tube of something from a draw in the bedside desk. Cedric popped the top and squeezed a copious amount of clear gel onto his fingers, which he then used to slick the length of his own erection, already poised at the entrance between John’s legs. John knew it was going to hurt, but he also felt a sense of trembling anticipation. Very slowly, Cedric began to push the tip of his member against John’s hole, pausing to give John time to adjust when he finally breached the tight ring of muscle._

_John gasped and Sherlock immediately kissed him, their tongues waging war against each other for dominance. As Cedric pushed himself in deeper, Sherlock moved his hand down John’s torso until he reached the hilt of his arousal, meekly resting on his abdomen. The sensation of being filled by Cedric while Sherlock was sliding his long fingers up and down his shaft, his thumb rubbing the sensitive spot at the tip of the head, was overwhelming. He let out a high-pitched gasp and heard Cedric and Sherlock chuckling, the latter starting to move his hand faster while Cedric’s thrusts became more forceful. The tip of his cock brushed against something deep inside John and he writhed against the bed linen. It was too much, too hot, he was going to—_

_“Not yet, baby,” Cedric suddenly pulled out and John moaned at the loss, the fire that had been building in his groin subsiding to a warm glow as Sherlock continued to pump him. Cedric crawled up one side of the bed and pressed his mouth against John’s dry lips._

_“John,” Sherlock’s voice said and both other boys looked up. He had his parted lips open, inches from John’s now rock-hard member. “I want you to watch me.” He said, and lowered his mouth. His technique was faster than Cedric’s, and at one point John even felt his tip touch the back of Sherlock’s throat. It was a strange and wonderful sight – Sherlock’s full lips circled around him, his eyes partly closed, his dark pink tongue swirling around the head. John had to cover his mouth to stop himself crying out. His hands and knees were trembling as the build-up of pleasure increased, Sherlock’s head bobbing up and down at an incredible pace, and Cedric’s fingers teased his hair as he moved John’s hands away to kiss him. The younger boy clawed the bed sheets and gasped fretfully as the white heat churning in the deepest pit of his stomach rose to a crescendo, crashing back down with spurts of warm fluid into Sherlock’s mouth. John cried out, his voice catching in his throat and his whole body giving way to the shaking that was travelling upwards from his toes, curled in pure, unadulterated bliss. . ._

John jerked awake, his hips still unconsciously bucking against his duvet, riding out the pleasure still coursing through his veins. He opened his eyes – he was panting hard, and his forehead was slick with sweat. Pale blue light was trickling in through the window beside his bed – it must have been nearly dawn.

“Holy fuck,” he gasped, pressed his hands against his face and breathing deeply. Then he felt something wet and oddly warm on the inside of his leg. “Oh, damn.”

The underside of his duvet now had a large damp spot – courtesy of John’s dream. And what a dream! John would have laughed were he not worried of waking his roommates, all of whom were still soundly asleep, Ron and Neville both snoring softly. Gingerly, John pulled back his covers. He now regretted sleeping nude that night – at least pyjamas would have lessened the blow his poor sheets had suffered, then no-one would need know. He didn’t know how often the house-elves changed the linen on the beds. Could be days. Could he sleep with a large come-stain on his duvet and it not bother him? No, probably not.

John decided to go and have a shower, to rid himself of the evidence of his shame from his legs at least. He tugged on his pyjamas – a sticky, unpleasant experience – and tiptoed out of the dormitory. His watch told him it was ten past four, so he doubted anyone would be about to question his chosen attire for roaming the castle, or why he was up so early.

The Fat Lady gave a small snort as she woke when John pushed the portrait hole open, and peered blearily down at him.

“Where are you going?” she asked sleepily.

“Bathroom,” John said, and walked off down the corridor. As he’d expected, the castle was almost completely deserted, though he thought he heard Peeves zooming round somewhere upstairs. He hoped he wouldn’t meet him – the wretched poltergeist would have John’s humiliation spread throughout the school before breakfast – and hurried on. The Gryffindor Common Room was on the seventh floor, and the third years’ bathroom was on the fifth, so it was fifteen minutes before he found himself standing in front of the handle-less door beneath the tapestry of Emerton the Eager.

“Squeaky clean,” John said to the door, which obligingly swung open. He stepped through and was just shrugging off his pyjama jacket when he heard a small squeak behind him and turned. A tiny house-elf was standing by the towel-rack, restocking the shelves with fresh, fluffy white towels.

“Hello,” John said.

“A very good morning to you, sir,” the elf said with a curtsey. It had a tiny snubbed nose and very long ears – from the shrillness of its voice John guessed it may be female. “Forgive Gilda, sir – she was just putting out fresh towels. She will not be a moment.”

“It’s okay,” John said, turning to walk through to the changing rooms. Then, struck by a sudden thought, he looked back. “Um – Gilda?”

“Yes, sir?” the elf quickly stashed the last of the towels on the rack and curtseyed again. “How may Gilda be of assistance?”

“How. . . how often is are the beds changed in the Common Rooms?”

“Every three days, sir,” the elf replied. “At ten o’clock in the morning, sir. They are to be changed the day after tomorrow.”

“Right,” John said awkwardly. “Is there any chance mine could be changed today? It’s just I, um, I spilled a potion on the sheets.”

“Of course, sir,” Gilda curtseyed again. “May Gilda ask which House and bed is yours?”

“Yeah,” John said. “Gryffindor, third year dormitory – straight opposite the door.”

“We shall see that it is attended to, sir,” the elf nodded. “If it pleases you, sir, Gilda will leave now.”

“Oh, sure,” John said, stepping aside to let the elf by. “Thanks a lot.”

“It is Gilda’s pleasure, sir,” the elf curtseyed once more, and left the room.

It probably won’t be for the poor elf who has to do it, John thought, but felt relieved all the same. As long as none of his roommates felt the urge to inspect the state of his linen no-one need ever know of the incident. At least he hadn’t wet the bed. That would have been bad. He just hoped it didn’t happen again anytime soon.

He discarded his pyjamas and collected one of the towels Gilda had laid out, hanging it from the hook outside the shower cubicle he chose. His pyjama trousers were really quite disgusting now. As he stepped into the hot water spray, he wondered briefly if the house-elves were used to this kind of thing from the male students. He can’t have been the only one it had ever happened to, surely. All the books and leaflets said that it was perfectly normal for teenage boys to have those kinds of dreams. Well, maybe not that particular kind of dream, but certainly with the same outcome.

John’s faced flushed scarlet as he thought back to the content of the night’s vision, and he felt a squirming in the pit of his stomach. It had all been so vivid, like an R-rated film. Now he was awake, though, it was almost comical to think of Sherlock doing pretty much anything that he’d done in the dream. He couldn’t quite imagine Cedric calling him ‘baby’, either. There was no way Sherlock could possibly be that experienced – he’d never even kissed anyone before. In truth, neither had John, but he knew the basic idea. Sherlock probably considered kissing about as worthwhile an activity as stamp-collecting or squeezing one’s spots in front of a mirror. The thought was he would be an expert in fellatio was nothing short of laughable.

God, it had been hot though. . .

John could feel a stirring between his legs as he thought back to the finer details of the dream, like how soft Cedric’s lips had been, or how Sherlock’s fingers had felt as they’d caressed him. Taking full advantage of the fact that it was still only four-thirty and no-one was likely to walk in, John allowed himself ten minutes of self-administered satisfaction – the cloudy liquid washing down the drain-hole with the rest of last night’s evidence.

There was still no-one about as John made his way back up the stairs to Gryffindor Tower. He’d been thoroughly surprised – and extremely grateful – to see that, while he was in the shower, his sullied pyjama trousers had been replaced with freshly clean ones and neatly folded on top of his shirt, possibly by Gilda. God bless house-elves, he thought, running a hand through his still damp hair. He was just turning a corner at the end of a long passage, into the seven-floor shaft of moving staircases, when he stepped straight into something solid.

“Ouch!” he said, rubbing his chest where he’d received a rather sharp jab.

“Sorry,” a voice said hastily. “You alright? Blimey, didn’t think anyone else’d be up.”

You have got to be kidding me, John marvelled as he looked up at Cedric Diggory’s face. Of all the people to run into. He was dressed in his yellow Quidditch robes and carrying a broomstick in one hand – the source of the jab John had received to his ribs.

“Hey,” he said, smiling down at John, who hoped his face remained passive. “It’s you.”

“Uhh, yeah,” John said, forcing a smile back. “Me.”

“What’re you doing up so early?”

“Sleepwalking,” John said immediately, then inwardly cursed himself. Sleepwalking? What sort of a lame excuse was that? Why could he not have just said “the bathroom”? Because oh no, that would be far too simple – no, he had to blurt out the most random thing his brain could come up with in two seconds.

“Ah,” Cedric laughed. “That explains the pyjamas. But. . . not the wet hair.”

Oh, blow. John racked his mind. “Peeves,” he said. “Dropped a water-bomb on me.”

Too late he realised this didn’t explain why, while his hair was damp, his pyjamas were spotlessly dry. Thankfully, Cedric decided not to press the matter. He probably just thought John was a bit weird. Great.

“He’s a bit of a pest,” he said, shifting the broom handle in his hand. “Well, best be off – practice and all that.”

“Yeah, sure,” John said, stepping around the taller boy and smiling awkwardly.

“Well, good to see you again,” Cedric said. “What’s your name?”

“John,” he said.

“Cedric.” As if there wasn’t a single person in the school above first year that didn’t know his name. “See you around, John.”

“Yeah,” John tried to keep the excited breathlessness out of his voice. “See you. Cedric.”

Cedric set off down the staircase to their right, slinging his broom over his shoulder as he went. Before disappearing down the corridor at the bottom, he turned and gave John a cheery wave, which John returned somewhat shakily. Hogwarts was one great big vessel of coincidences and random timing, he thought as he began to make his way back to Gryffindor Tower, not meeting anyone else. The Fat Lady was fast asleep again when he reached her, and he had to announce his presence quite loudly before she grudgingly woke up.

“There ought to be a rule that states student may not be permitted to enter at such ridiculous hours!” she snapped.

“Fortuna Major,” John whined. “Please?”

She gave an ill-tempered huff and reluctantly swung forward. The Common Room was completely empty – it was only five-fifteen – and John was now too awake to go back to sleep. He sank into an armchair by the empty fire-grate and picked up a copy of Unfogging The Future someone had left on a nearby table. Divination didn’t look like an appealing subject, he thought as he flipped through the pages. There was a lot of waffle about “broadening your minds to see past the mundane” and “searching for the Seer within”. Load of hippy nonsense, really.

The light filtering in through the windows slowly turned from pale mauve to watery yellow, as the sun rose over the Forbidden Forest, the faint sounds of birdsong announcing the sunrise. John’s fingers slackened on the pages of Unfogging The Future and his head lolled back against the armchair. . .

“John?”

John jerked upright and the heavy book in his hands fell to the floor from where it had been perched precariously on his knee. Glancing at the clock, he saw it was now nearly seven-thirty, and people were starting to rouse. It was Seamus who had wakened him, still curled up in the chair, a slight damp patch forming on the material where he’d rested his head.

“You haven’t been here all night?” the Irish boy smirked.

“No,” John said groggily, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. “Got up to go to the bathroom.”

“Okay,” Seamus noticed the book lying at his foot. “Oh, that’s where it is,” he said, picking it up and straightened a couple of bent pages. “Wish I hadn’t taken it now,” he said bitterly. “Stupid. Did you hear what she said ‘bout Harry?”

John shook his head.

“Trelawney reckons he’s for the chop,” Seamus dragged his forefinger along his throat. “Saw a Grim in his teacup. Death omen,” he added at John’s confused expression.

“Oh!” John blinked in shocked surprise.

“Yep,” Seamus looked thoroughly amused by the news of Harry’s impending doom. “Me mam says Divination’s a load of old tosh, actually, but it looked easier than the other ones. Dean reckons I should’ve taken Muggle Studies instead.”

Then Dean himself appeared and the two boys headed off through the portrait hole, leaving John to return to their dorm room to change.

There was an atmosphere of uneasiness among the Gryffindor third years at breakfast, and John reckoned he could guess why – Hagrid’s disastrous first lesson yesterday afternoon. His friendly, hairy face was missing from the staff table, as was Malfoy’s presence from the Slytherins. Anyone with a logical mind knew that the slimy git was alright – Madam Pomfrey had re-grown the bones in Harry’s arm last year, so she could easily mend a cut – but that didn’t stop the Slytherins acting like the hippogriff had bitten his stupid head off.

“It’ll be a miracle if he’s not sacked,” said Sherlock loudly, with all the subtly of a sledgehammer.

“Sherlock,” John muttered, glancing down the table at Harry, Ron and Hermione’s anxious faces.

“It’s true,” Sherlock shrugged, taking a mouthful of toast. “You know what Lucius Malfoy’s like – he got Dumbledore sacked last year, so a half-giant wouldn’t be a problem.”

John nearly dropped his goblet.

“Didn’t you know?” Sherlock said to his astonished friend.

“No,” John whispered. “How do you—?”

“By using that rather useful thing called a brain, John,” Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Maybe you should get one. What did you think – he’d swallowed a bottle of Skele-Gro or something?”

“Well, I don’t know,” John said. “When you’ve grown up a Muggle you kinda think anything’s possible here.”

“Well, he’s obviously not pure giant because they’re enormous – size of trees, some of them – but definitely one of his parents. It’s certainly not good news for his case. A half-giant who teaches hippogriffs to third years? Not good.”

“But it only attacked Malfoy ‘cause he insulted it,” John said exasperatedly. “Me and Molly heard him. And Hagrid did warn us about being rude to them.”

“Well, Malfoy’s a stupid prick, we know that. Thing is that doesn’t exactly help Hagrid’s case. Mycroft says most of the governors are scared of him.”

“Couldn’t Mycroft do something?”

Sherlock snorted and shook his head. “Just because he’s my brother doesn’t mean he obeys my every whim.”

“But this is more than that! We’re talking about an innocent life—”

“Of a hippogriff, John,” Sherlock sighed. “Mycroft’s not gonna risk his position in the Ministry for something he used to call ‘horsey-birds’ when he was five.”

John couldn’t help but laugh at that, then sighed. “It’s so unfair.”

“That it is,” Sherlock said. “But since when were Slytherin’s fair? You want a Hufflepuff for that.”

John glanced over at the Hufflepuff table, where he could see Cedric laughing with a couple of his friends. His stomach swooped then full-out lurched when Cedric’s eyes lifted and locked with his. He smiled and gave a little wave. John quickly averted his gaze to his cereal – which didn’t look suspicious at all – and realised that Sherlock was now staring at him. The was a curious expression on his face – something between suspicion and annoyance.

“What?”

Sherlock dropped his gaze back to his plate. “So I’ve been thinking about you,” he said.

John blinked, the heat rising in his face. “R-really?”

“About this person you like,” Sherlock said. “I’ve come up with three possible candidates.”

“Oh?” John said. His heart was pounding.

“Number one,” Sherlock took a gulp of juice from his goblet. “Molly.”

“No,” John said quickly. “She’s just a friend.”

“Okay,” Sherlock nodded. “Number two, me.”

John spluttered and choked on the spoonful of cornflakes he was trying to swallow.

“Y-you?” he squawked.

“Studies show that you’re seventy percent more likely to develop romantic or sexual attraction to those you spend the most time with, family aside. Unless you’re a freak.”

“What studies?”

“Mine. Well?”

“No,” John didn’t think he’d ever lied so hard in his life, trying to keep eye contact with his friend all the time – not a particularly easy task. “Definitely not you. Just. . . no.”

“Okay,” Sherlock nodded. “Good.”

Good. John had no idea one single word could be so painful. It was like a kick in the gut. Sherlock was glad at the thought that John didn’t fancy him – relieved, even. Well, that certainly answered a lot of questions he wouldn’t have to ask now.

“Thirdly,” Sherlock continued, blind to John’s anguish, “Cedric Diggory.”

“Huh?!”

“New theory. I saw you looking at him just now,” Sherlock nodded over to the Hufflepuff table. “Kind of obvious.”

“Well, aren’t you the bright one,” John said dryly.

“Yes,” said Sherlock. “So, I’m right?”

“Doesn’t matter,” John frowned, pushing his bowl away.

Sherlock smirked and leaned back in triumph. “So little John Watson’s got it for Hufflepuff’s golden boy,” he crowed.

“Keep your damn voice down,” John hissed and glanced fearfully around them, but luckily no-one seemed to have heard him.

“It’s not a big deal,” Sherlock shrugged.

Well, that’s something, John thought bitterly.

“Got to say, John,” Sherlock said with a laugh that sounded almost cruel to John’s ears. “You could have gone for someone a little less obvious.”

John got to his feet so fast he upset a jug of pumpkin juice, splattering a couple of nearby sixth years.

“The hell, dude?” one of them cursed, mopping his lap with a napkin. But John was already halfway down the aisle between the tables towards the door.


	4. Chapter 4

John stormed through the Great Hall and back up the staircase. He was going to sit and fume in Gryffindor Tower until their first lesson started. How dare Sherlock say that to him? God-damn jerk! What did he know about it? He understood nothing – nothing¬ – about the human heart. How it felt to have it race when the person you liked was nearby – when they looked at you, made you feel like you meant something, that there was even the slightest chance they might feel the same way about you. Cedric was worth ten of Sherlock bloody Holmes! He was kind, thoughtful, and friendly to almost everyone he met. He wasn’t like a coin – ready to flip at a moment’s notice when the fancy took him. Sherlock couldn’t just say things like that and think it was okay. Was it so impossible for him to understand that it was hard enough for John’s secret to be blown so clean out of the water without him criticizing it as well? So maybe Cedric was an obvious choice – so what? It wasn’t like John stood a chance with him anyway, and Sherlock knew this. So why, why, did he have to be so mean about it? He was supposed to be John’s best friend. He was supposed to be supportive and, while he may not sympathise with John’s problem, he could at least try to be a little more tactful. But no, of course not. Not Sherlock I-Don’t-Give-A-Shit-About-Other-People’s-Feelings Holmes.

John didn’t realise he was crying until he tasted salt at the corner of his mouth. He paused by a suit of armour to catch his breath and scrubbed at his eyes with the backs of his hands. 

“Hey, John!” someone called.

John looked up and blearily saw someone jogging towards him. With a jolt of his insides he realised it was Cedric.

“Hi,” he said, trying to sound chipper, which was a little hard considering his red eyes and trembling lower lip. Cedric looked down at him with what seemed like genuine concern.

“What’s up?” he asked. “I saw you running out of the Hall.”

“S’nothing,” John sniffed, wiping his nose attractively – not – on his sleeve. “Sherlock just. . . he’s just being a jerk.”

“Why doesn’t that surprise me?” Cedric said in an uncharacteristically dry tone.

John gave a feeble laugh and tried for a smile. 

“I’ve heard the way he talks to you sometimes,” Cedric said. “In the Library and whatnot. You don’t have to put up with it, John.”

“He doesn’t mean it,” John lied. He wasn’t sure why he was defending him, even now. “He’s just. . .”

“A prat,” Cedric finished for him, and John laughed a little louder.

“Look,” Cedric said, rubbing the back of his neck. “I know it’s none of my business, but don’t let him walk all over you.”

“What d’you mean?” 

“I mean don’t just forgive him all the time because he’s your friend. He should learn he can’t treat people like that and expect them to just come running back to him because he’s The Great Sherlock Holmes.”

“You’re right,” John said miserably.

“You don’t have to settle for half, John,” Cedric said. “Ever. Yes?”

“I s’pose.”

“It mean it,” Cedric said, his dark grey eyes staring right into John’s, whose heart was doing some kind of dance inside his chest. “Don’t be a tag-along in your own life, John.”

Is this another dream? John wondered as Cedric smiled at him. This boy he liked so much actually thought he was worth something. He certainly thought he was worth running after for. John’s heart swelled and, to his annoyance, tears started to well up in his eyes again.

“Come here,” Cedric’s arms reached out and wrapped themselves around the smaller boy’s shoulders, and John allowed himself to vent his feelings all over the front of his robes.

 

Sherlock was confused.

It wasn’t often that this phenomenon happened – he could usually come to any conclusion faster than blinking – but when it came to John his brain came to a halt more often than at any other time. Before coming to Hogwarts, he’d never had much call to deal with other people’s emotions. He’d known what emotions were – happy, sad, angry, what have you – but he’d never had so many of them fired in his direction before. At home, his mother had mostly left him to his own devices after the age of six, and Mycroft was too busy plotting his own future to converse much with his little brother. The neighbourhood children had held no interest for him with their loud, rough-and-tumble games, and so he’d spent most of his childhood alone – reading books, practicing the little magic he knew, and building on his already impressive intellect. There was no call, no need, for the seemingly never-ending surge of feelings John expressed almost every day. And now, when Sherlock was simply speaking his mind – and the truth – he was angry with him again.

Sherlock would never admit this of course, but the feelings he was experiencing right now puzzled him. He’d been shocked at John’s sudden departure from the Hall, and had felt something stir in the pit of his stomach when he’d noticed Diggory hurrying after him, concern on his face. Sherlock wondered if the thick-sculled oaf knew John’s feelings for him. Probably not. Any boy with a face that pretty couldn’t possibly have the brains to figure it out.

“Sherlock.”

The Ravenclaw looked up. Lestrade was standing next to him, a small frown creasing his forehead. Sherlock didn’t acknowledge him verbally but he sat down in the empty space beside him anyway.

“What’s up with John?”

“How should I know?” Sherlock shrugged, picking up his toast, now cold, and finding that his appetite had significantly diminished for some reason.

“Because you know everything,” Lestrade said dryly.

“True.”

“Did you say something to him?” Lestrade asked.

“Nothing that really concerns you.”

Lestrade raised his hands in mock defence. “Sorry, Your Highness,” he frowned. He picked up a piece of toast from the rack in front of him and took a large bite. The Gryffindors sitting opposite regarded the two non-housemates with confusion. What did they mean by it? A Ravenclaw and a Hufflepuff sitting at their table, stealing their toast? Outrageous.

Sherlock couldn’t say that he liked Lestrade that much. He’d vaguely noticed him as they were growing up – a scruffy-looking boy with a too-wide smile and a loud laugh – but there was nothing about him worth admiring. He was a cookie-cut Hufflepuff – not particularly talented or interesting, just nice. Now he thought about it, one might use that same description for John. Except John was different. He couldn’t explain how. He just. . .was. Yet Sherlock felt compelled to confide in the untalented, uninteresting, nice Hufflepuff boy. He was older than he, more sociable – he may know what John’s problem was.

“John’s gay,” he said, smirking as Lestrade choked on the bread he was trying to swallow.

“S-seriously?” he coughed, thumping his chest with his fist to clear his airway.

“He’s attracted to Diggory.”

“What – Cedric?” Lestrade glanced over to his table at Diggory’s vacated seat. “Blimey.”

“Yes,” Sherlock said. “I told him he could have chosen someone less obvious.”

“You what?” Lestrade looked back and Sherlock with narrowed eyes.

“He could at least have selected someone worth wasting emotions over,” Sherlock shrugged. “It’s not as if Diggory feels the same.”

Lestrade paused, looking thoughtful. “Did you know he was gay before you found out about Cedric?”

“No,” Sherlock said. “Easy enough to guess from how he was looking at him just now.”

“Let me get this straight,” Lestrade said. “You told John you knew he was gay.”

“Yes,” Sherlock said. “He seemed surprised.”

“I can imagine. Then you said you knew he fancied Cedric.”

“Yes,” Sherlock said impatiently. What was the dunce getting at?

“And then you told him it was stupid to fancy Cedric anyway?”

“Yes. . .” Sherlock said. Hearing his words spoken back to him was making them sound slightly less acceptable.

“What sort of heartless bastard are you?” Lestrade said, shaking his head in disbelief. “Are you actually mentally ill?”

“I don’t see the problem,” Sherlock said calmly, though a flush rose in his cheeks at Lestrade’s insult. “I was just being honest.”

“Oh, don’t give me that,” Lestrade snapped. “There’s being honest then there’s being a jerk. Did he ask for your opinion?”

“Well, not exact—”

“Did he by any chance seem upset when you outed him like that? Anyone could have been listening!”

“So what if they were? There’s nothing wrong with being gay.”

“Oh, so you are vaguely human,” Lestrade said in mock surprise. “It might be easy for you not to care about what people think, wrapped in your little ego bubble, but it’s not like that for everyone.”

“I don’t see why—”

“Oh, just shut up,” Lestrade said, real contempt in his voice. Sherlock sat back, shocked into silence. Lestrade lowered his voice. “Listen. Kids are cruel. Not all of them are, but some. Take the entirety of Slytherin, for example.” He nodded over at the furthermost table in the Hall. “If anyone had heard you just announcing John was gay, word would get around, and not everyone would be so understanding. Can you imagine what pricks like them,” he gestured to Malfoy and Moriarty, laughing at some joke on the Slytherin table, “would do if they found out? They’d make his life hell. John’s the last person who needs or deserves to be bullied. And if anyone told Cedric that John has a crush on him, he’d be mortified. If you fancy someone, sometimes the last thing in the world that you want is for them to know it.”

“Oh, like you and Molly Hooper?” Sherlock said, finding his voice.

“To an extent, yes,” Lestrade nodded, not looking slightly abashed. “But that’s different. Yeah, there isn’t anything wrong with guys liking guys, or girls liking girls, but not everyone sees it that way. You can’t just rip a secret like that from him and then say it’s pointless anyway.”

“It wasn’t that bad!” Sherlock said, his voice rising in anger. “All I said was that Diggory was an obvious choice!”

“Keep your voice down,” Lestrade warned. “It’s none of your damn business if he’s ‘obvious’ or not. John likes him and he wants you to accept that – it’s part of who he is. If his best friend can’t support him in this then what hope must he feel he has of anyone else doing it? You hurt him, Sherlock, and when has he ever hurt you?”

I hurt him.

The words reverberated in Sherlock’s head. It was a strange and truly unpleasant feeling – the guilt that welled up inside him at Lestrade’s accusation. It was true – John was the best, the truest friend anyone could ask for. Loyal, brave, honest – he was everything Gryffindor was meant to stand for. He’d stuck by Sherlock despite his junkyard personality – always covered his tracks for him in the wake of emotional disarray he supposedly left behind him. Sherlock had honestly never considered the possibility that what he might say to people might hurt John, embarrass him. It just hadn’t entered his brain. Just like when he’d insulted Diggory.

“Why are people so complicated?” he wondered aloud, and despite his irritation towards the tactless Ravenclaw, Lestrade gave a small smile. Sherlock really looked completely perplexed by the notion that other people found the things he said hurtful. The line between honest and tactless was a deeply shaded blur to him. It barely even existed. Pretty much all of his sympathies lay with John at this moment, but he couldn’t help feeling the tiniest bit sorry for Sherlock. He didn’t hurt John deliberately. He seemed aghast at the notion – though Lestrade had the feeling he’d feel less bad about it if it were someone other than John.

“They’re not that complicated, man,” Lestrade said, leaning forward on his elbows. “Just try not to say anything to anyone ever again and you’ll be fine.”

Before that time in their first year, Sherlock Holmes had never apologised to anyone in his whole life. Back then, it had taken every effort to swallow his pride and do it, and this was even worse. He was starting to feel like the only way he’d be able to say sorry to John would be to grind his teeth and then punch him straight afterwards. Because that’s normal.

Sherlock knew the Gryffindors had Potions first thing on a Tuesday, and he had double Transfiguration. The classrooms weren’t necessarily near each other, and Professor McGonagall wasn’t exactly agreeable to anyone who walked in late to her lessons – but Sherlock had this unwavering certainty that apologising to John was important enough to risk detention. He trekked the long walk down to the dungeons in time to meet the Gryffindors as they trailed down the corridor to Professor Snape’s classroom.

“John!” he called as he spotted his friend’s blond head amongst the crowd. John glanced round, saw him, and proceeded straight into Snape’s classroom. The other Gryffindors looked puzzled at the two friends – everyone knew they were hardly ever separated from each other – and the coldness with which John treated Sherlock was new and interesting. Quite a few of the Slytherins sniggered.

“Lovers’ tiff, Sherlock?” Moriarty smirked nastily. He always called Sherlock by his first name when making any snide comment, which set his teeth on edge. He turned and stormed back out of the dungeons. He knew he wasn’t stupid, but he hated being made to feel so – especially by John in front of the poxy Slytherins. When he got to class, he let McGonagall’s reprimands wash over him without hearing a word, and sat down at his desk with his housemates glaring at him for the ten points she’d docked for his tardiness. He didn’t care. He didn’t give a damn about any of them. Stupid stuck-up Ravenclaws. What did they know?

He stewed in his anger and irritation for the next two hours, and by the time the bell to signify the beginning of lunch came he was fairly sure a dark cloud was visible above his head. Trying hard to swallow his pride – which was about as easy as swallowing a whole porcupine – he decided to try and intercept John on his way back from Charms. It would be easier if he could get him alone rather than in the Great Hall. He hastened to the fourth floor, and was just turning the corner when he saw something that made him stop – Cedric Diggory waiting outside the classroom. What was he doing here? His question was answered as John stepped through the door and greeted the Hufflepuff with a warm, expectant smile.

“Good lesson?” Diggory asked, and John nodded.

“Thanks for meeting me,” John said, tugging his bag strap further up his shoulder and staring up at the taller boy with simpering admiration. Or that’s how it looked to Sherlock.

“No problem,” Diggory said.

“Are you sure this is okay?” John asked. “Your team won’t mind?”

“Course not,” Diggory smiled. “There’s usually a few from our House watching anyway. Nice to have a little inter-House support.”

“Hufflepuff, do your stuff!” John punched the air and Diggory laughed. Sherlock wanted to vomit. Time to put an end to this nice little meeting, he thought, stepping out from around the corner and seeing the smile vanish from John’s face. The sudden lack of warmth like what he’d shown Diggory was almost like a chill down Sherlock’s spine.

“Sherlock,” he said. He stopped walking and so did Diggory.

“I’m sorry,” Sherlock said, more aggressively than he’d intended, his hands balling into fists. “For what I said.”

“Right,” John nodded slowly, then shrugged. “Thank you.”

Sherlock felt a flush of relief – John wasn’t still mad at him. Maybe he was just trying to teach him a quick lesson before forgiving him. He smiled and put his hands in his pockets.

“Want to get some food?” he asked.

John glanced up and Diggory, who shrugged and smiled. John shook his head. “No, thanks,” he said. “I’m gonna go watch Cedric’s team practice.”

“Oh,” Sherlock said, deflating. “Well, can I—?”

“No,” John said again, sharper this time. “Sorry. I’ll. . . I’ll see you later.”

And with that, he marched straight past the astounded Ravenclaw, Diggory following. As the older boy passed Sherlock, he gave him a look that seemed like resentment tinged with sympathy. Sherlock felt a strong desire to curse him – or kick him, whichever would hurt more. Why was he so interested in John all of a sudden? How had they even met? Diggory was one of the most popular students in the school – the Golden Boy of Hufflepuff – so what could he gain from anything friendship with John. John – who was Sherlock’s best friend.

Sherlock had never had any cause for jealousy before, and so wasn’t quick to recognise it as it thundered through his veins. All he knew was that he was angry, red-faced, and felt like someone had dealt a hefty blow to his stomach. He put it down to dislike of Diggory. But why? Diggory had never done anything to him – never even spoken to him. He doubted he even knew his second name. It must be shame then, embarrassment, at John having put him down so coldly. John. . .

Sherlock felt a jolt in the region of his chest and pressed his palm against it, his brow furrowed in confusion. What was this? He’d never felt it before. It was like an icy hand had clenched over his heart – aching but still thumping faster than before. He didn’t like it. His over-stimulated brain started working overtime – running through a list if every wizarding and Muggle condition that might cause a person’s chest to constrict.

“Well,” a snide voice said. “Isn’t this precious?”

Moriarty was leaning against the wall opposite Sherlock – he hadn’t even heard him arrive. He had his hands in the pockets of his Slytherin robes and a malicious smirk plastered over his face.

“What do you want?” Sherlock spat, trying to regain his composure. To his surprise, seeing Moriarty loosened the tight knot in his chest, replaced only with simmering dislike. That he could identify.

“Now, now, Sherlock – just wanted to see how things were with your little friend,” Moriarty said innocently. The over-enunciation in his Irish accent sent a jolt of annoyance through Sherlock and he turned to leave.

“Don’t be so quick to run away now, Sherly-boy,” the Slytherin said. “I quite fancied a chat with you.”

“Sorry to disappoint,” Sherlock said coldly. “If you’ll excuse me—”

He was cut short by a large chunk of the stone wall beside him exploding, covering him in grey dust. Moriarty concealed his wand back inside his robes and sauntered towards Sherlock, who found himself stood still in surprise.

“Don’t you want to know what’s going on?” Moriarty asked in low voice. Sherlock looked down at him – the Slytherin was a good head shorter than himself – and saw a excitable spark glittering in his brown eyes. He wasn’t sure if he was more reminded of childish thrill or the unhinged erraticness of a psychopath. Maybe both. 

“Going on with what?” he asked.

“Why, you and your ickle fwend,” Moriarty said in a mock baby voice. “You’ve created a bit of an atmosphere between yourselves, haven’t you?”

“No business of yours,” said Sherlock trying to move away but finding his path barred by Moriarty’s arm slamming against the wall. He gave a breathless laugh that suggested disbelief at Sherlock’s manners and wagged a finger in his face.

“Not very polite, are you, Mr. Wit?” he said. “Not too bright either,” he added, and drilled the tip of his finger into Sherlock’s cheek. A nerve pulsed in the Ravenclaw’s temple and he calmly withdrew his wand from the pocket inside his robes.

“If you don’t get out of my way,” he said, “I’m going to curse you.”

“Ooo~ooh!” Moriarty sang – this guy really was insane, Sherlock thought – and backed away with his hands in the air. “Please spare me, O great sorcerer!”

Sherlock strolled briskly past and was halfway down the staircase when Moriarty’s voice found him again.

“Don’t let your feelings run away with you, Sherlock,” he said from the top of the stairs, all trace of frivolity gone. “You might not be the only one who gets hurt.”

With that, he turned on his heel and skipped off down the Charms corridor.

“Freak,” Sherlock muttered, continuing down. He had never let his feelings run away with him – he didn’t really have enough to do so. His emotional smorgasbord mainly consisted of curiosity, amusement, boredom, exhilaration and, more recently, anger – nothing else. Not until his chance meeting with John had he started taking an interest in people. Before that they’d just been passers-by – reproductive machines running on blood and emotions – only catching his eye when they messed up. Not now. Now he’d managed to hone his craft of deducing facts from even the slightest details and deriving pleasure from it – to see the varying looks of amazement and confusion on the people whose secrets he’d brought to light. The look of fascination and admiration on John’s face had made his ego soar, not doing much for his humility but sending his confidence sky high. Before they met he hardly spoke to anyone. He didn’t want to. Didn’t need to. He. . . he didn’t know how to. And how had he returned the favour? By embarrassing John, antagonising him, ripping his closest-guarded secret from him and setting it ablaze right before his eyes. What sort of a friend did that make him?

Sherlock shook his head and tried to set his line of thought straight. Eccentric and slightly mad as Moriarty seemed to be, perhaps he had a small point. No good ever came out of letting emotions run one’s life. Caring was most definitely not an advantage. The more you had, the more you had to lose. Hadn’t he heard that somewhere before?

Still, it didn’t stop the thought of John laughing and joking with Diggory making him want to curse the nearest statue into rubble.

 

One thing was for certain, John thought as he watched the yellow-clad Quidditch players zoom about the pitch, Cedric was one hell of a flyer. The way he moved, it was amazing, like a giant bird of prey. As good as any league player. What are you talking about, John? he asked himself. You couldn’t name one league player. He shook his head and smirked in amusement at himself. The unexpected and not all that pleasant run-in with Sherlock had left him feeling jumbled up. After he and Cedric had left him standing alone in the corridor, he’d felt really bad to brushing him aside to carelessly, and had almost wanted to turn back. Cedric had asked him if he wanted to, but he’d said no. What other chance would he get to hang out with Cedric like this? Cedric actually seemed to like him – if not as a potential boyfriend, then as a friend, despite being three years older. 

Still, the look on Sherlock’s face. . .

No, he scolded himself, stop thinking about him.

By the time the team had finished their practice, a chilly breeze had swept through the stands and John was starting to feel hungry. He followed the rest of Hufflepuff viewers down the rickety staircase and hurried over to Cedric as he landed on the grass. He looked pleased and heartily congratulated his team as they moved towards the changing rooms.

“How were we?” he asked John as the Gryffindor caught up with him.

“Great!” John grinned. Cedric struck quite an impressive silhouette – tall, broad shoulders, hair windswept, broomstick slung over his shoulder. For a brief moment he wondered what Sherlock would look like in Quidditch robes – the Ravenclaw blue would really bring out the colour in his eyes. . .

Oh, shut up, he forced himself to halt any such thoughts and waited outside the changing rooms while Cedric showered and emerged in his normal robes, his dark hair slightly damp.

“Are you okay?” he asked John as they followed the team back up to the castle. John’s stomach was rumbling – he hoped they’d still be serving lunch, it had only been half an hour – and he nodded absentmindedly. Then he felt Cedric’s hand on his shoulder. “Do you want to go find him?” he asked. 

“No,” John insisted. “I can’t let him get away with it that easily.”

Cedric laughed softly. “He did sound genuinely sorry,” he said. “I think he’s learned something from this. And now, you know that if it happens again, you’re strong enough to walk away.”

John looked up at the gently smiling Hufflepuff. What was he, some kind of Oracle? A robot programmed to always say the right thing? Whatever he was, John considered it nothing short of a miracle to have befriended him.

“C’mon,” Cedric said, patting him on the shoulder as they walked through the great oak doors. “Let’s go find Sherlock.”


	5. Chapter 5

It had been two weeks since John and Sherlock’s little skirmish, and things were finally starting to simmer down. Although it obviously went against everything he was used to, Sherlock had delivered a reasonable apology, and John was temporarily pacified. It was strange feeling though, this new sensation of power he seemed to gained over his best friend. Up ‘til now, Sherlock had held all the cards – he was smarter, cooler, and John was nearly always willing to comply with anything he wanted to do. It was different now – just that one little fight had tipped the scale somewhat, and John almost felt he was the one with the winning hand. Sherlock had been acting a little out-of-sorts since they’d reconciled – he seemed to be, if it were possible, thinking of someone other than himself. He asked John what he wanted to do, how his day had gone, and John thought he knew why. The fact that John had found an unlikely alliance with Cedric unnerved the Ravenclaw, possibly intimidated him. He knew now that John wasn’t beneath choosing Cedric’s company over Sherlock’s, when he wasn’t surrounded by his hoard of Hufflepuff followers, that there were some things he could talk about with the older boy that Sherlock simply didn’t understand.

And Sherlock did not like it. That was the stone-cold truth that gave John that strange sense of power – Sherlock didn’t like John hanging out with Cedric. He didn’t like John’s attention being diverted from anyone other than himself – anyone he considered a genuine contender, anyway. Molly and Lestrade didn’t bother him – they were harmless enough, just faces in the crowd in the Ravenclaw’s eyes – but Cedric did. He was smart – almost enough to rival Sherlock’s intellect – and John looked up to him. Sherlock seemed to appreciate him more now because of it, and while John was exasperated it had taken this kind of revelation for it to happen, he was grateful.

Still, in truth, he didn’t enjoy the placement he now had in their friendship as much as he probably should have done. It was nice not to be treated as quite so much of a doormat now, but he had the feeling Sherlock was trying a little too hard to keep his attention. He’d started deducing things about passers-by at random, whether they wanted it or not, which was doing absolutely nothing for his growing reputation as a ‘weirdo’. Some of the younger girls still seemed impressed by these feats, but John hears whispers following Sherlock in the corridors, plus some choice nicknames he was sure Sherlock wouldn’t appreciate. Yet he didn’t think it was them Sherlock was trying to impress. Every time he identified something ridiculously obscure about a person, his gaze would fall to John, who then felt obliged to nod and smile and congratulate him. It was like pacifying a seven year old.

So it was no wonder really that he sought out Cedric’s company. It was always a little nerve-wracking – trying to seem cool and funny, while at the same time not reveal his desires for the Hufflepuff to pin him against a wall and. . . well, yeah. His newfound friendship with the Quidditch Captain certainly hadn’t done any harm to his previously non-existent reputation. Some of Cedric’s friends even greeted him in the corridor, and he seemed to have become more appealing to girls in Cedric’s shadow. His own attraction to Cedric hadn’t given any signs of decreasing. The more he got to know him, the more he liked him. He was the epitome of a Nice Guy, except he had the looks to polish it off as well. It was almost unfair – John knew many boys bore jealous grudges against Cedric as girls they liked ignored their fruitless chat-up attempts in favour of batting their eyelashes at Cedric as he passed.

It was close to nine o’clock on Wednesday night, and John was sitting by the fire in the Gryffindor Common Room with Sherlock, adding some final notes to his Defence essay, due in tomorrow. They were still working on boggarts, and Professor Lupin had promised to try and find another so those who’d missed out on challenging it could have a practice if they wanted. 

“You gonna have a shot at it tomorrow, then?” John asked Sherlock, who’d been mumbling to himself for over fifteen minutes, sending wisps of silver vapour across the room from the end of his wand. Defence was the only class the Gryffindors shared with the Ravenclaws, and he was interested to see what form Sherlock’s boggart would take.

“Yes,” Sherlock tossed his wand aside and pulled his knees up under his chin, his eyes resting on the fireplace. “You?”

“Nah,” John said, adding the final word to his essay and signing his name at the top. He certainly didn’t want everyone knowing what he was most scared of. “Finally,” he grinned in satisfaction. “And two inches over what Lupin asked for.”

“Congratulations,” Sherlock yawned, resting his head against the wing of his armchair. He looked tired, and John felt a rush of warm affection for his friend, combined with that flame he still held for him. The time he spent with Cedric had certainly softened the fierce, sometimes agonising, feelings John had for the Ravenclaw, but had not eradicated them entirely. Was it possible to love two people at the same time? No, John didn’t love Cedric – he was immensely attracted to him and John was sure that, were Sherlock not still in the picture, his feelings could easily evolve into love – but what he felt for Sherlock was something different. It was burned into his very core – a part of him. That was love. It still hurt sometimes, but he now had that gentle warmth in Cedric to cushion the blow.

The clock struck eight forty-five and Sherlock stretched his long legs. In light of the whole Sirius Black situation, all students were now required to be back in their Houses by nine o’clock sharp, without exception.

“You off?” John asked as his friend rose to his feet.

“Yeah,” Sherlock nodded, running a hand through his unruly hair. “See you tomorrow.”

John stared after him as he crossed the room and left through the portrait hole, glancing over his shoulder once to smile goodnight. The catch clicked shut and John laid his forehead down on his completed essay. In what world could he ever say he was over Sherlock? It would be like saying he was over oxygen. In truth, he couldn’t even say exactly what it was about the Ravenclaw that tormented him so much – yes, he was handsome, but it was so much more than that. It wasn’t even his intelligence, the effortless way he could deduce from the barest of glances at the smallest details. That was impressive, yes, but he’d admired that before he’d realised his true feelings. Thinking back, he guessed the first moment he’d felt that jump was when they were by the lake, and Sherlock confessed that John was his first and only friend. That small moment of vulnerability, that brief glimpse into the truth that Sherlock Holmes was human after all. That’s what it was. It could almost be called sweet.

“You’re out of your depth, Watson,” he laughed hollowly. Then, rolling up his essay and shouldering his bag, he headed up the stairs to the dormitory.

 

There was an element of excitement and apprehension in the air as the Gryffindor and Ravenclaw third years lined up outside the Defence classroom. Most of those who were planning on tackling the boggart were muttering the incantation under their breaths, and some had their faces screwed up in concentration, thinking of ways to counteract their worst fears. Sherlock, however, looked perfectly at ease.

“What are you even scared of?” John asked him as they filed into the classroom and took their seats.

“Nothing,” Sherlock smirked. “Should make for an interesting exercise.”

“Everyone’s scared of something.”

“Nope.” 

“Right. Maybe it’ll just explode when it looks at you.”

The door opened and Professor Lupin entered, levitating a large, dusty packing case through the air in front of him. As he passed their desk, John heard Sherlock do a very quiet impression of a howling wolf, and nudged him hard. After their very first Defence lesson, Sherlock had revealed his deductions to John that Professor Lupin was, in fact, a werewolf. 

“Painfully obvious, isn’t it?” he’d said. “His scruffy appearance, for one – it’s not exactly the most desirable thing a potential employer wants to see on a CV, is it? Then the screaming fact that the boggart turned into the full moon in front of him. I mean, seriously, how could everyone not see that?”

This didn’t change John’s opinion of Professor Lupin at all – he was the best Defence teacher they’d had and he knew Dumbledore would never have purposefully allowed any of them to fall under any kind of danger – but he was pretty sure not everyone would see it that way, so he’d persuaded Sherlock not to go blabbing to anyone else about it. If the likes of Malfoy got wind of it, he’d no doubt go running to Daddy Dearest and poor Professor Lupin would be out of a job in less than five minutes.

“Good afternoon,” said Lupin pleasantly, patting the lid of the case he’d set down beside his desk. “As promised, I’ve managed to procure another boggart for those who’d like a crack at it – might be useful for your end-of-year exam. Those of you who would like to challenge it, raise your hand.”

Seven or eight people – including Sherlock, Molly and Hermione – extended their arms.

“Excellent,” Lupin said. “If everyone else would kind gather to one side of the room, I’ll clear the decks.”

John shuffled with the group to stand by the line of tall windows, while Sherlock joined the line in the centre of the room. Lupin waved his wand, sending the desks sliding in an orderly fashion to the other side of the room, and knelt down by the side of the case. 

“Is everyone ready?” he asked.

There was a murmur of assent and Padma Patil stepped forward to challenge the boggart first. Lupin threw open the lid of the case. For a moment, nothing happened. Then, slowly, a dead-looking hand curled its finger over the edge of the box. John saw Padma freeze as something large, wet and bloated crawled onto the floor, closer to where she stood paralysed by fear. It was a decaying human corpse – drowned – with long dark hair, dripping water in large pools around it. Through the curtains covering its face, wide, bulging eyeballs stared unblinkingly up at Padma. 

“R-riddikulus!” she squeaked, and the corpse slipped on the boards – now wrapped in a pink fluffy towel, it’s lank hair held up by a floral shower-cap.

“Very good!” Lupin chuckled. 

Terry Boot stepped forward, and the boggart switched forms to become a sallow-skinned vampire, yellow fangs dripping blood, which he turned into chattering clockwork teeth, causing the vampire to vibrate as Molly stepped forward. The boggart then became an enormous black rat with long claws, making her shriek, before gathering her wits and turning it into a squeaky rubber mouse. 

Then it was Sherlock’s turn. He stepped forward, smugly confident, and drew his wand out from inside his robes. The boggart looked at him for a moment, then transformed. At first, John was confused – for it had taken the form of Sherlock himself, crouched in the same position that the corpse had been. Then, he realised – the boggart-Sherlock was rocking violently, backwards and forwards, its hands pressed against the sides of its head. Its eyes were wild and bloodshot, its mouth gaping open, spittle running down its chin, a look of uncontrolled, insane panic etched into every detail of its face.

This was Sherlock’s greatest fear – himself, having completely lost his mind.

John waited for the real Sherlock to raise his wand, to say the incantation and banish the apparition. But he didn’t. He stood there, frozen, as Padma had been – completely paralyzed by fear. He must have known it wasn’t real, but seemed completely incapable of defending himself. His face was a mask of terror, shock and, to an extent, horrified fascination. Like watching a car-crash.

John heard some of the other Ravenclaws laugh nervously. Sherlock didn’t seem to hear them, but John couldn’t stand to see him be humiliated. Lupin moved to come to Sherlock’s aid, but John got there first. He took three sharp strides and placed himself firmly between his friend and the infernal shape-shifter. The boggart-Sherlock leered manically up at him, then – to John’s surprise – stood up, regaining the cool composure he associated with the real-life genius.

“You’re disgusting,” the boggart spat, in a perfect replica of Sherlock’s voice. John knew it wasn’t real, but to hear those words from Sherlock’s mouth made him flinch nonetheless. He didn’t have time to react – he hadn’t prepared any kind of defence.

“Pathetic little queer,” the boggart sneered, its handsome features twisted in hatred. John felt like someone had tipped a bucket of iced water over his head. He could hear his classmates muttering, and forced himself to stay focused. Taking a deep breath, he pulled out his wand and said loudly, “Riddikulus!”

The boggart-Sherlock’s hands flew to its lips, now covered with a wide strip of gaffer tape, and John pulled Sherlock aside to let Hermione tackle it. Sherlock pulled himself from John’s grip and stalked from the room, pausing only to pick up his bag.  
oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo  
After Sherlock’s exit, Professor Lupin wrapped up the practical exercise fairly quickly, setting them to taking notes from the textbook after Kevin Entwhistle of Ravenclaw finally banished the boggart. John could sense people looking at him, but kept his eyes fixed firmly on the page in front of him. Anyone who didn’t know Sherlock as he did might have thought him heartless for not going after him – but John knew Sherlock would want some time alone, to nurse his bruised dignity in peace.

When the end-of-lesson bell went, nobody was surprised when Professor Lupin asked John to stay behind. He’d been expecting it, really. Molly said she’d wait for him outside the classroom and closed the door, leaving John and Lupin alone.

“Are you alright, John?” Lupin asked.

“Yes, sir,” John said.

“I’m sorry things panned out like that,” Lupin said, sitting down behind his desk and observing John with light brown eyes.

“Not your fault, sir,” he shrugged. “Sorry Sherlock ran out.”

“I imagine he’s not used to being shown up like that.”

“Too right,” John snorted. “He’s too cocky.”

Lupin smiled a little sadly. “I once a friend like that – thought he held the world in the palm of his hand.” He leaned back in his chair. “Well, I just wanted to check you were alright, and to apologise if the exercise has caused any inconvenience for you.”

John knew he was referring to the boggart-Sherlock outing him in front of the whole class. Weirdly enough, he didn’t feel as scared or humiliated as he’d thought he would. I suppose it helped that everyone had still been distracted by Sherlock’s impression of a rabbit caught in headlights, though he was still thanking his lucky stars that they shared the class with the Ravenclaws rather than the Slytherins. At least this way it might take a little longer for the word to spread, give him time to prepare for the oncoming teasing that was sure to ensue once the likes of Malfoy and Moriarty got wind of it. It was only when he thought of what Cedric might say if he heard that a bubble of panic started to rise in his chest. He was sure – very nearly sure – that Cedric wouldn’t hold it against him were he to discover the truth. As long as he didn’t find out just how John felt about him – that was the clincher. 

“Also,” Lupin continued, “you know that if ever you need to talk to someone, about anything, I’ll always be here to listen and help if I can.”

John was touched. Professor Lupin really was a very nice man – nicer than most of the teachers they had at Hogwarts. He had the sort of calm, mellow demeanour that made John think he really could come to him with a problem. 

“Thanks, sir,” he smiled. “But really, I’m fine. Though I’d better go find Sherlock now.”

“Of course,” Lupin said, gathering the scrolls of homework they’d placed on his desk and smiling at John. “Bye, John.”

“Bye, sir,” John replied, shifting his bag-strap further up his shoulder and exiting the room. Molly was still waiting for him, perched on the low pedestal of a statue of Oswald the Outrageous outside the classroom.

“Everything alright?” she asked. 

“Yeah – just wanted to ask if Sherlock was okay,” John shrugged.

There was a small silence as they made their way down the corridor. It was nearing dinnertime, and so they had to dump their books in their dormitories before heading down to the Great Hall.

“Is it true?” Molly asked tentatively as they climbed one of the rotating staircases.

“Is what true?” John said, though he knew perfectly well what she meant.

“You,” she said. “Are you. . . you know. . . what the boggart said?”

John paused, checking there weren’t any lurking Slytherins to be had nearby. The only person was a second-year Ravenclaw girl with long blonde hair humming to herself a few steps below them. She didn’t look all that interested in their conversation so John said, “Yeah.”

Molly raised her eyebrows and breathed out deeply. “Wow.”

“Yeah,” John laughed dryly.

“It’s. . . wow. Does Sherlock know?”

“Moll, of course he knows. He’s Sherlock Holmes. He even figured out who. . .” he looked over his shoulder again. The blonde girl was batting at something invisible around her head. John frowned, shook his head, and continued quietly. “He figured out who I fancy.”

“Ooh, who?”

“You’ve got to promise you won’t tell anyone.”

Molly crossed her heart, her face full of eager curiosity, though when John told her, she didn’t look all that surprised.

“Well, who doesn’t fancy Cedric?” she said as they approached the Common Room. “At least it’s not some horrible Slytherin. Like Moriarty,” she shuddered. “He’s vile. Flibbertigibbet.” They dispensed of their bags and headed back down to the Great Hall with Dean and Seamus in tow. 

“Save me a seat,” John said to Molly when they reached the tall doors, the tantalising smell of food wafting through. “I’ve got to find Sherlock.”

“D’you want me to help?”

“Nah, I know where he’ll be.”

The sky outside was already growing dark, and a light breeze rustled the leaves in the Forbidden Forest. He passed a couple of seventh-years on his way to the lake, who were still wrestling their copies of The Monster Book of Monsters back into their bags, as they were firmly refusing to be stroked into submission.

John could already see Sherlock’s dark, curly-haired figure sitting beneath the tree they frequented by the lake, his knees pulled up, arms-folded, his mouth and nose buried in the crook of his elbow. John felt a pang of pity for him – he looked so sad. As he approached, Sherlock glanced up, turning away from John as he sat down beside him.

“You know,” John said, “we seem to have most of our most in-depth conversations here. Emotional spot, clearly.”

Sherlock didn’t say anything, but John felt his stiff frame ease up slightly.

“It’s okay,” he said. “People were weirded out much more by mine.” He tried to sound flippant, but his heart gave an extra hard thump at the memory of the contempt on the boggart-Sherlock’s face when it had viciously outed him.

There was a moment of silence, and then Sherlock blurted out, “I don’t care what they think!”

“Sherlock, it’s fine—”

“No, it’s not!” John quickly recognised the loud, defensive tone which meant Sherlock was trying to convey his feelings – something he usually avoided like a swarm of Cornish pixies. “It was stupid! Weak! Even Longbottom could do it!”

“We’ve all got our weaknesses, Sherlock,” John said.

Don’t we just, he thought, his heart warming at his friend’s look of tortured sensitivity.

“Well, I don’t!” Sherlock snapped. “Mycroft doesn’t. Nor do I.”

“You don’t have to be perfect. That’s impossible.”

Sherlock snorted. “For you, maybe.”

John rolled his eyes. “Look, Sherlock, I know you’re upset, but just think – my boggart just outed me in front of the whole class. If anyone should be having a nervous breakdown, it’s me. And am I? No.”

Not on the outside, anyway.

“But I don’t think any less of you for that!”

John’s heart skipped. “You don’t?”

“Of course not – it doesn’t matter. It’s fine.”

John was a little stunned. Sherlock was always so logical, he’d always assumed he’d have at least something to say about John’s out-of-the-ordinary sexuality.

“Wow,” he said. “Well. . . thank you. You know, I don’t think any less of you, right?”

Sherlock turned to look at him, his sharp eyes narrowed. “You don’t?” he said, echoing John’s surprised reaction.

“Of course not,” John mirrored. Then, smiling, “It doesn’t matter. It’s fine. Really.”

Sherlock stared at him for a moment, then averted his gaze back across the lake. John wanted to reach out to him so badly – hug him, hold his hand, even just put his arm around his shoulders. Sherlock didn’t care what anyone else thought of him – only that John still hold him in the same regard. John was touched. Sherlock may no longer be way up on a pedestal – he was too annoying for that – but he still looked up to him. As a friend, a leader – and so much more than that.

John couldn’t help himself. He looked around, checking there wasn’t anyone nearby. Then, taking a deep breath, he shuffled a little closer to Sherlock and lowered his head onto the Ravenclaw’s shoulder. He felt Sherlock stiffen, but didn’t sit back up. He wanted Sherlock to know how much he still cared for and admired him. He needed him to know. Then, slowly, miraculously, Sherlock reached out and put his arm around John, his long fingers curling round his shoulder.

“Thank you,” he said.


	6. Chapter 6

It took a surprisingly short time for the revelation of John’s sexuality to become old news amongst the students. At first he was dogged by whispers behind hands and curious stares as he passed in the corridors, but eventually that died down until even the Slytherins resigned to merely flopping their wrists in his direction, and that was easily ignored.

“Told you it’d die down in no time,” Greg said offhandedly as they made their way down to the Entrance Hall for the year’s first trip to Hogsmeade village. Greg had been raving about it to them all afternoon, and both John and Molly were growing increasingly more excited at the prospect of visiting Honeydukes and Zonko’s. Even Sherlock, for all his pretences of offhand disinterest, had an expectant smile on his lips when he thought no one could see. 

“Yeah,” John smiled. “And thanks for decking Nott the other day.”

“Don’t mention it – that little slime-ball had it coming,” Greg smirked.

John had been pleasantly surprised by the support he’d received from almost every Gryffindor upon his unceremonious outing. Both Harry and Ron had taken to flanking him on the way to class every day, returning any choice remarks bestowed upon him by the Slytherins with equal vigour, and Greg had been assigned to detention more than once for using more physical forms of retaliation.

The four of them climbed into one of the horseless carriages and were soon trundling down the road that led to the station and Hogsmeade. Greg engaged Molly with a description of some of the more interesting aspects of the village, while Sherlock stared out of the window. It was a bright, cold day, with a suggestion of rain – typical October weather.

“Looking forward to it?” John asked his friend, who shrugged.

“It could be entertaining,” he said.

“You know, it wouldn’t kill you to actually act excited for once,” John sighed in exasperation. “Over something that isn’t necessarily a challenge.”

Sherlock gave him a wry smile and chuckled, and John gave him a good-natured dig in the ribs. Things had eased up again between them since the incident with the boggart, though Sherlock still turned a little sour-faced when Cedric graced them with his presence. John didn’t mind – he was on good terms with both his friends, and that was enough for him. He wondered if they’d bump into Cedric in the village. He’d probably been to Hogsmeade enough times for it to lose its initial thrill, but since it was Halloween perhaps he’d go anyway.

When they arrived, the first place John, Molly and Greg wanted to visit was, naturally, Honeydukes Sweet Shop, and Sherlock was content to tag along. The shop was bursting with students, all fighting to get their hands on sweets you couldn’t just buy from the Hogwarts Express trolley. A rather harassed-looking woman was elbowing her way through the crowd to refill the shelves, calling, “Easy now, dears, there’s plenty for everyone!” 

John was particularly taken by the Fizzing Whizzbees, sherbet-filled bonbons which caused the eater to float above the ground, and Greg was busy filling a large paper bag with Jelly Slugs, Pepper Imps, Ice Mice and enough Chocolate Frogs to restage the Plagues of Egypt. Molly was already chewing on a large chunk of treacle fudge, and Sherlock was perusing the ‘Unusual Tastes’ section of the shop with interest.

“Not getting anything?” John asked, sliding up to him with a Sugar Quill already half-devoured in his hand.

“Not much of a sweet tooth,” Sherlock replied, picking up a jar of Cockroach Cluster and examining the ingredients label.

“Urgh, who’d want these?” John grimaced, pointing to a large (surprisingly depleted) jar of Chocolate Maggots, which were still squirming sickeningly against the glass. “D’you reckon they’re really maggots?”

“Well, considering they’re in this section I’d say so,” Sherlock said, replacing the Cockroach Cluster and sticking his hands in his pockets. 

“Dare you to get some.” John nudged him, and Sherlock smiled and shook his head.

“Ahh, look at the two lovebirds,” a snide voice came from behind them. John rolled his eyes and turned to face Malfoy and Moriarty, flanked by what he first assumed were two trolls in woolly hats, who he then realised were Crabbe and Goyle. Crabbe was unpleasantly chewing something with his mouth wide open, and John saw Goyle slip a great handful of Acid Pops into his pocket.

“They’re doing a special on Love Potions in Zonko’s, Watson,” Malfoy sneered. “Maybe you should invest in some – might give you a better chance of finding a boyfriend desperate enough to snog you.”

As pathetic as he knew Malfoy to be, John still felt his face flame. 

“I mean, seriously,” Malfoy drawled (God, this guy had an irritating voice), “what chance d’you think you have? And you do realise no amount of sucking up to Diggory’s going to make him fancy you, don’t you?”

Sherlock stepped sharply in front of John and stared down at Malfoy with a look icier than a pond in the depths of winter.

“Oh, watch yourself,” Moriarty smirked. “The great Holmes is going to deduce us to death.”

Sherlock said nothing, but continued to stare down the two Slytherins until eventually Malfoy ordered his cronies away. Moriarty gave Sherlock an annoyingly knowing smile before following, kicking over a small barrel of Every Flavour Beans as he went.

“You alright?” Sherlock asked John, his eyes still on the back of Moriarty’s head.

“Yeah,” John sighed, shoving the remainder of his Sugar Quill into his mouth and crunching it up, discarding the nib in a nearby barrel. “Jerks.”

“You know, I don’t understand it,” Sherlock mused. “Why does Moriarty hang around with a slime like Malfoy?”

“Birds of a feather?” John suggested, smiling at Ron and Hermione as they passed with a giant bag full of sweets.

“No,” Sherlock said. “Moriarty’s cleverer than Malfoy, he’s more conniving, so what does he gain by being one of his lackeys?”

“They’re just as bad as each other,” John insisted. “Come on, let’s find Molly and Greg.”

As they left the sweet shop, a light rain had started to fall over the village, and almost everyone was headed towards The Three Broomsticks for a drink. The four friends took this opportunity to visit Zonko’s Joke Shop, where it was a little less crowded. They passed Fred and George Weasley bickering over whether it was more productive to purchase Dung Bombs or Fanged Frisbees, and which would annoy Filch more. The shop had the effect of turning Greg into a nine year old boy, and he went charging off to fill his pockets with various items John was sure his father would not have approved of. Molly seemed less enthusiastic at the joke items, and sat down on a windowsill to eat her sweets while examining a box of Nose-Biting Teacups with vague interest.

“Juvenile,” Sherlock muttered as they passed a large display of Ever-Bashing Boomerangs.

“Oh, come on,” John said. “You laughed when Seamus set off that Screaming Sootball in History of Magic the other day. Don’t lie, I saw you!”

“That was. . .” Sherlock couldn’t seem to think of a dignified response so he wandered off to stand beside Molly.

The Three Broomsticks was still heaving when they stepped in the door. The whole place had been decorated for Halloween with orange-and-black streamers and a couple of singing Pumpkins at either end of the bar. John, Sherlock and Molly nabbed a table in the corner while Greg went to order the drinks.

“Look, there’s Cedric,” Molly said, pointing to a table across the room, where Cedric was with a group of his Hufflepuff friends, laughing at a joke someone had just told.

“He is very handsome, isn’t he?” Molly sighed wistfully. “You’re so lucky, John.”

“We’re just friends,” John said.

“Yeah, but you still hang out with him,” Molly said. “He’s so cool.”

Sherlock raised his eyebrows and clicked his tongue.

“Oh, you’re just jealous,” Molly smirked at him.

“I can assure you I’m not,” he replied. “I wouldn’t be a Hufflepuff for all the gold in Gringotts.”

“You’re such a snob,” John reprimanded him. “Greg’s a Hufflepuff, remember?”

Sherlock gave him an ‘I rest my case’ sort of look, and John rolled his eyes.

The Butterbeer Greg bought for them was warm and delicious, like fizzy melted caramel ice cream. Even Sherlock, after taking an experimental sip, seemed to like it. John tried to keep his eyes off Cedric, which proved slightly more difficult than he’d thought, until Cedric glanced their way and his face lit up in a smile. He excused himself from his friends and sauntered over.

“Hey,” he said, smiling warmly at them all. Molly giggled and blushed and Greg looked annoyed. “Enjoying your first trip?” he asked John, who nodded enthusiastically.

“Anyone want another drink?” Cedric asked the group at large. “I was going to get another one.”

Everyone politely refused the offer except Greg, who asked Cedric to get him a Firewhiskey. Cedric laughed (though Greg later said he’d been entirely serious) and carried on to the bar. John saw Madam Rosmerta, the pretty barmaid, give him a dazzling smile as she rushed to serve him.

“Why do all the girls think he’s so great?” Greg grumbled, and Sherlock snorted.

“For once, we’re on the same page.”

“Just because he’s handsome.”

“And a Quidditch player, like that’s anything to be proud of.”

“His hair’s stupid.”

“And he’s such a suck-up to the teachers.”

It was so bizarre and amusing for Sherlock and Greg to be agreeing so wholeheartedly about something that John almost wanted them to continue, but he felt obliged out of loyalty to Cedric to intervene.

“Hey, shut up,” he said. “Cedric’s a great guy.”

“Well, of course you’d think so,” Greg snorted.

John’s face flushed and Molly turned angrily on Greg.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” she said sharply.

“I-I didn’t mean it like that,” Greg hastily backtracked, quailing under her glare. “I just meant because, well. . . he likes him, doesn’t he?”

“Smooth,” Molly shook her head. “You’re both being stupid. Cedric’s a really nice guy and he’s clever.”

“I’m clever!” Greg protested.

“Yeah, but you’re not always nice, are you? Neither are you, Sherlock,” she said, turning on the Ravenclaw who was chuckling to himself.

“I don’t claim to be,” he shrugged.

“And you think that makes you better than Cedric?” 

John was astonished – here was Molly being hostile towards Sherlock Holmes, the guy she’d crushed on since First Year. He felt touched that she felt her duty to defend John was more important. Sherlock himself looked surprised.

“You obviously still don’t like him because you’re scared he’s going to take John away from you,” Molly said, pointing a finger at Sherlock. “And you,” she said to Greg, “I don’t know what your problem is but shut up.”

“I’m sorry,” he mumbled.

“Go Moll,” John laughed, patting her on the shoulder. “It’s okay.”

“Who wants to go see the Shrieking Shack?” Molly said, standing up and dragging Greg to his feet with her.

“I’m alright,” John said, still chuckling. “You two go. Have fun.” 

Greg allowed himself to frogmarched from the pub, leaving Sherlock and John alone at their table.

 

The next few months passed by in a whirl of strange events – the most notable being Sirius Black’s attack on the Fat Lady, then Gryffindor’s abysmal defeat at the hands of Hufflepuff. After Harry had been sent plummeting to the ground when the Dementors invaded the stadium, John had met up with Cedric outside the Hufflepuff changing rooms while everyone else trouped back up to the castle out of the wind and rain – and not to mention the eerie, chilling mist left behind by the Dementors once Dumbledore had banished them back to the grounds. John didn’t think he’d ever seen a teacher shout so furiously as Dumbledore did then.

After telling Sherlock he’d meet him back at the Common Room, John found Cedric sitting on a bench outside the changing rooms, his friends and teammates mysteriously absent. He still had the Snitch clasped loosely in his hand.

“Cedric?” John said tentatively.

Cedric looked up and forced a smile.

“Hey, John.”

John sat down beside the Hufflepuff captain. “Are you okay?”

Cedric ran a hand through his dark hair and sighed. “Potter’s okay, that’s what matters.”

“Yeah, he’ll be fine,” John said, trying not to think about how pale and sickly Harry had looked when they’d taken him up to the Hospital Wing. “Don’t beat yourself up about it, Ced.”

“How can’t I?” Cedric leaned back, staring up into the stormy sky. “They wouldn’t even consider a rematch.”

“You won the game fair and square,” John said, glancing at the tiny golden ball still fluttering its wings between Cedric’s fingers. 

“It wasn’t fair, though,” Cedric said, sounding more annoyed now. “Potter didn’t stand a chance against those things.”

“But it wasn’t your fault,” John insisted. “Harry will understand.”

“Wood looked like he wanted to flay me alive,” Cedric snorted. “He’s still in the showers, you know.”

“He’ll get over it,” John said, though he knew the likeliness of that happening anytime soon was almost nonexistent. Cedric knew it too but he still smiled at John.

“Thanks for finding me,” he said.

“Where’re all your friends?”

“I sent them back,” he said. “Didn’t want all the attention.”

“Oh,” John blushed, starting to stand. “Sorry, d’you want me to—?”

“No,” Cedric grabbed the end of John’s scarf. “I was hoping you’d come.”

“Really?” John sank back down onto the bench. 

“You’re easier to be with,” Cedric said. “I can just be myself – don’t have to act the Popular Guy.”

“Yeah,” John sighed. “Sherlock has that problem.”

Cedric looked at him for a moment then they both burst out laughing.

“How’s he doing, by the way?” Cedric asked. “Still seething with jealousy?”

“Yeah, but he’s better at hiding it,” John said. “It’s nice, in a way. Shows he cares.”

“Well, any idiot can see he thinks the world of you,” Cedric said.

John’s heart skipped a beat. “Seriously?”

“Of course,” Cedric nodded. “Well, he probably wouldn’t put it that way, I guess, but I know he does. I would.”

John looked at the older boy, whose gaze was fixed on the grass between his feet, his fingers toying with the Snitch as it tried to escape.

“Why?” John said. He knew he was fishing for compliments but if they came from Cedric Diggory he didn’t care if he was. Cedric slowly turned his head to look at John, a smile slowly forming on his handsome face.

“Because you’re you,” he said simply.

John would have given anything to have just been able to lean over and kiss him, right there in the rain behind the Quidditch pitch. He felt his body lean subconsciously towards Cedric’s, his fingers edging across the bench ‘til they brushed against the material of his wet robes. His gaze travelled over the long dark hairs tumbling over Cedric’s forehead above his steel-grey eyes, the masculine line of his jaw, the delicate flush of his lips. . .

Then a loud bang jolted him out of his reverie and they both looked round to see Oliver Wood leaving the shower room, his head bowed against the wind, a look of pure misery etched into every detail of his features. Cedric groaned and bumped the back of his head against the changing room wall.

There was also the added drama of the arrival of Harry’s incredible new broomstick, plus the battle over Hermione’s cat Crookshanks’ repeated attempts to hunt down Ron’s rat Scabbers, escalating to a pitch when Ron found blood on his bed-sheets along with telltale orange hairs. Add in the ever-present threat of Sirius Black not having yet been caught, and the upcoming Gryffindor vs. Ravenclaw Quidditch match, which would determine Gryffindor’s place in the finals, the atmosphere in Gryffindor Tower was tense to say the least.

The day of the match, excitement that was bubbling in the Great Hall at breakfast, mostly due to Harry’s new Firebolt finally making an appearance on the pitch. Even Sherlock was interested to see how the new model would fair in the game.

The weather was light and breezy as they all made their way down to the pitch in a sea of House colours. Cedric, Greg, and a large number of other Hufflepuffs had armed themselves with Gryffindor flags in support of the team. John saw Cedric wishing Harry luck as they passed the changing rooms, to which Harry gave a good-natured, if nervous, smile.  
John spent most of the game on the edge of his seat, cheering Gryffindor on with Molly and Cedric, and even Sherlock was leaning forward so to better focus on the action on the pitch. Harry seemed to be having trouble concentrating on locating the Snitch due to the Ravenclaw Seeker, Cho Chang, blocking him at almost every turn (not to mention being extremely pretty). Cedric and Greg seemed a little distracted by her too, which made both John and Molly scowl. Sherlock, thankfully, couldn’t have been less interested.

The game climaxed when three large Dementors came gliding onto the pitch, staring up at Harry as he soared after the tiny Snitch, just beyond his fingertips. Harry reached into his Quidditch robes, pulled out his wand, and shouted an incantation. A burst of silver light erupted from the end of his wand, zooming straight at the Dementors, who stumbled on their robes and fell in a heap on the grass – Crabbe, Goyle, Malfoy and the Slytherin Captain, Flint, all trying to untangle themselves from the black material.

“Blimey,” Cedric muttered as the crowd around them cheered and whooped for Gryffindor’s victory. “Brilliant Patronus charm.”

“Huh?” John called, clapping his hands in the air and whistling.

“A positive force that repels Dementors,” Sherlock explained from his left. “Not fully formed but impressive nonetheless, I suppose.”

A raucous party was held in Gryffindor Tower that night, and even Sherlock seemed to be genuinely enjoying himself after a few bottles of Butterbeer. John even saw him laughing at Seamus Finnegan floating dazedly around the chandelier with a mouthful of Fizzing Whizzbees. The Weasley twins somehow managed to procure what seemed like the entire stock of Honeydukes, and it was far gone midnight when the last of the students finally trailed up to bed. Sherlock was permitted – rather begrudgingly by Percy Weasley – to sleep on one of the sofas, as he’d be in serious trouble if he was caught wandering the corridors this late at night. John traipsed up to the Third Year boys’ dormitory with Harry, Ron, Neville, Seamus and Dean, and each of them collapsed onto their beds, finally too tired to discuss any more details of the match. 

John lay awake for a while, staring at the dark canopy of his four-poster. He thought of Sherlock on the sofa downstairs, and wished he could have invited him to sleep in the dormitory with them. He wouldn’t have minded sharing, though it might have raised a couple of raised eyebrows amongst the other boys, not to mention have been extremely awkward being in such close proximity to the boy he fancied. Yeah, maybe sharing wasn’t such a good idea. He ran a hand over his stomach, still swollen from food, and was just about to roll over and close his eyes when he heard the faint click of the door. Thinking it might be Sherlock, he raised his head a little to squint through the darkness, just illuminated by the moon outside the window. Someone was walking slowly, very carefully, around the room, peering through each set of curtains. This struck John as odd, as Sherlock knew perfectly well which bed was his, so it made no sense for him to be searching for it. Some cold crept into the pit of John’s stomach as the dark figure slowly turned its gaze towards John’s bed. His was the only one with the curtains left open. The person stood at the end of his bed, stepping just into the stream of light from the window.

A skeletal figure, long matted dark hair, hollow eyes set in a face that was gaunt and waxy with malnourishment. There was no mistaking it – Sirius Black.

John wanted to scream, wanted to wake the entire dormitory, but the fear stuck in his throat and all he could do was lie there and hope to God the murderer didn’t come any closer. Then a thought flashed through his mind like a lightning bolt – Sherlock. He was downstairs, alone, completely unprotected. What if Black had killed him, stopped him sounding the alarm. John’s brain screamed for his arms and legs to move, to run, to make sure Sherlock was alright, that he was still alive.

Black moved to the bed next to John’s – Ron’s bed. He pulled back the curtains and froze, a hand slipping slowly into his tattered robes for something long, silver and sharp as a—

John tried to call Ron’s name to wake him up, but as it turned out he didn’t need to.

“AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRGGGGHHHH! NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!”

Ron’s scream bounced of each wall like a caterwaul, and John heard Neville fall heavily out of his bed. Black cursed under his breath and sprinted from the room, leaving no trace he’d been there at all.

While everyone was trying to force their way into the boys’ dormitory to see what the commotion was about, John was fighting tooth and nail to get out – back to the Common Room. When he saw Sherlock’s slim figure still curled up on the sofa – that guy could sleep through a nuclear blitz – John threw himself on him and wrench him over to see his face.

“Mmm. . .?” Sherlock murmured groggily, squinting up at John. “John? What’s going on?”

Relief swept through John like a tidal wave, and he threw his arms around his friend with no care or thought for how he might respond.

“Get off,” Sherlock sighed, trying to unwind John’s vice-grip from around his shoulders, but John wouldn’t let go.

“Sirius Black!” he gasped. “He was here – in the dormitory! I thought— I thought you—”

Then he burst into tears.

Sherlock seemed stunned for a moment, his overpowered brain trying to process through the haze of sleep what was going on.

“Black?” he said, finally. The other Gryffindors were starting to file into the Common Room.

“Yeah,” John sniffed, wiping his eyes on the cuff of his pyjama shirt. “Tried to stab Ron.”

“God,” Sherlock put his hands on John’s shoulders and examined his face. “Are you alright?”

“Yeah, I’m fine.”

“What did Black do?”

“Just wandered round the room looking through the bed curtains at each of us.”

“But he tried to stab Weasley?”

“Yeah.”

“Curious.”

“What?”

“In all logic he should have tried to stab Potter.”

“Guess so. Maybe couldn’t see Ron properly.”

“But you said he looked at each of you in turn before trying to attack Weasley.”

“Well, yeah. . .”

“Does Weasley keep anything valuable with him when he sleeps?”

“No. Unless you count Scabbers and I’m pretty sure he’s snuffed it.”

“Who?”

“Ron’s rat,” John said. “Hermione’s cat ate him.”

Sherlock looked pensive for a moment. “Was there anything special about it?”

“About what?”

“Weasley’s rat.” 

“Sherlock, you’re kidding.”

“Absolutely not,” Sherlock said. “Was there?”

“Uhh, no,” John said blankly. “Well, he was missing a toe.”

Sherlock steepled his fingers and stared thoughtfully into the dying embers in the fireplace.

“Sherlock,” John sighed. “Shouldn’t we be more concerned with Black’s trying to murder Ron than a dead rat?”

“There’s no reason for Black to stab Weasley unless there was proper motivation,” Sherlock reasoned. “There’s no resemblance at all between Weasley and Potter so that rules out mistaken identity. We have to consider all the factors, John.”

“Fine, but Black’s insane. Everyone knows that.”

“He broke out of Azkaban,” Sherlock said, pointing one finger at John’s bemused face. “He eluded the Dementors. Most of the inmates of Azkaban are insane, granted, but I’m willing to bet none of those who are could do what Black has done.”

Professor McGonagall’s sharp voice broke Sherlock’s train of thought. “Now, really, enough’s enough!”

As Percy and Ron argued the situation to her, and she went to interrogate Sir Cadogan, John could hear Sherlock still muttering to himself as he stared into the fire, that telltale crease between his eyebrows indicating the deepest thought.

 

Almost right up until the Quidditch final between Gryffindor and Slytherin began to approach, all anyone could discuss between (and often during) classes was Black’s newest break-in into the castle. Theories of how he did it were flying around like rogue Bludgers, most of them utterly impossible – like Hannah Abbott’s guess of Black disguising himself as a flowering shrub.

“It’s obvious,” Sherlock rolled his eyes as they passed a group of Hufflepuffs – Hannah included – discussing the matter on their way to Charms class. “Black is clearly using some sort of secret passageway in and out of the castle.”

“How’d you deduce that?” John asked.

“There’s simply no other way,” Sherlock said. “It’s impossible to Apparate inside the castle, and the barriers would prevent him from flying in, and as for a flowering shrub. . .” he rolled his eyes again.

“Why don’t you tell Dumbledore?” John asked.

“Dumbledore is the only person in this castle I consider to be as insightful as myself,” Sherlock said, sounding almost as pompous as Percy Weasley. “I’m sure he’s considered the theory.”

The looming dread of their upcoming exams was heavy in the air as well. John had roped Molly into being his study partner, as it was infuriating having Sherlock trivialise every mistake he made. He was doing better in Potions, which was nothing short of a miracle with Professor Snape’s teachings, and he was excelling in Muggle Studies, naturally, but his Transfiguration was really falling short of the required standards. Molly was also struggling with Divination, and said she was considering taking a leaf from Harry and Ron’s book and just making it up.

“Sounds a load of old nonsense to me,” John said, idly flipping through Unfogging the Future while Molly scoured over the last of her notes.

“That’s because it is,” Sherlock said dryly from where he was seated on the window-sill, a large leather-bound book resting on his legs. 

“I thought it’d be easy,” Molly moaned. “I should’ve taken Muggle Studies like you, but I thought that’d be boring.”

“It is,” John said. “But at least I’m bound to get at least one passing exam mark.”

“You’ll be fine,” Molly patted his wrist reassuringly.

Thankfully, John’s anxieties about his Transfiguration exam turned out to be fairly unfounded, though the teapot he’d supposed to be turning into a tortoise still had a spout for a tail. He successfully performed a Cheering Charm on Neville Longbottom, and as Care of Magical Creatures simply involved keeping a Flobberworm alive, he was pretty sure he’d passed that as well. He even managed to procure a sufficiently thickened Confusing Concoction in Potions, which Professor Snape begrudgingly noted as he passed with his clipboard of marks sheets.

He spared a smirk in thought of Sherlock as he and Molly climbed the staircase to the Astronomy tower for their midnight exam, as he knew the Ravenclaw would be cursing under his breath the absurdity of what he considered such a menial subject to be tested on. Neither he or Molly did very well in their History of Magic exam, but made up for it in the afternoon’s Herbology test, though it took John a good ten minutes of exam time trying to detached a small pot of Devil’s Snare from his left forearm before Professor Sprout stepped in to save him. His hand was still throbbing as they made their way back from the greenhouses to the Common Room, where everyone was already studying for their final exams tomorrow – Defence Against the Dark Arts and either Muggle Studies or Divination. While Molly fretted over what was the best way to elude a Red Cap for their Defence exam, John chewed on a Chocolate Frog while perusing his notes on Grindylows until Sherlock stepped through the portrait hole.

“How’d it go?” John asked.

“Fine,” Sherlock shrugged. “Full marks in everything except Astronomy and Herbology.”

John had to admire his confidence – or arrogance, whichever it was.

“What happened in Herbology?”

“I set fire to the Venomous Tentacular.”

“On purpose?”

“Yes. It was distracting me.”

John sighed. “Ah well, just Defence and Muggle Studies left to go.”

To his unexpected surprise, John managed to complete the obstacle course Professor Lupin set for them the next day, stumbling only when he caught his foot in a pothole during the Red Cap exercise. Both he and Dean Thomas left their Muggle Studies test pretty confident they’d passed, and made their way to the Great Hall for dinner. John found Sherlock sitting opposite Molly, his gaze concentrated on the bowl of tomato soup in front of him.

“What’s up?” John asked, sliding in next to him and helping himself to a bread roll. “You still stumped about Black?”

Since Sirius Black reappearance, Sherlock’s brain seemed to have been working overtime trying to uncover exactly why he’d tried to attack Ron. It seemed like a pretty pointless exercise to John, but Sherlock was obsessing over it.

“It just doesn’t make sense,” he muttered. “For some reason the rat keeps coming back to me.”

“Maybe Black really doesn’t like rodents,” John suggested, spooning in a mouthful of mashed potato. 

“Why does the fact he has a missing finger ring a bell. . .?” Sherlock clutched a handful of his curly hair and frowned.

“Toe,” Molly said.

“I beg your pardon?” Sherlock raised an eyebrow at her.

“You said finger. Rats have toes.”

“Whatever,” Sherlock let out a long breath. “It’ll come to me.”

They bumped into Cedric on their way coming out of the Hall, who grinned expectantly at John. “So?” he said. “How’d it go?”

“Okay, I think,” John smiled hopefully. “Didn’t do so well in History of Magic but then, who does?”

“Me,” Sherlock said and Cedric laughed.

“Oh, to have your confidence, Holmes,” he said, and Sherlock sniffed derisively. “Anyway,” Cedric looked back to John. “Mind if I have a moment?”

“Sure,” John said, turning to Sherlock and Molly, who gave him a you’re-so-lucky look. “See you back in the Common Room.”

“So,” Cedric said when they were alone, the majority of the students having left the Entrance Hall for their respective Houses, “I wanted to give you this.”

John took the small scrap of paper Cedric was holding out to him and looked down at it.

“It’s my address,” Cedric said. “I wondered maybe, well, if you wanted. . . you could write to me this summer.”

“Yeah!” John beamed, then cleared his throat. “I mean yeah, totally.”

“Thought I’d give it to you now in case I lost you in the rush of going home,” Cedric explained. A small part of John’s brain hoped he also wanted the chance to be alone with him as well – there wasn’t much chance of it in the excitement of the end-of-year Hogsmeade visit and the feast. John owed so much to the tall, handsome boy standing in front of him that he felt words didn’t do it justice. Still, he wanted Cedric to know how much he appreciated everything he’d done for him that year.

“Cedric,” he said, smiling up at him. “Thank you.”

Cedric didn’t speak for a minute, then his face also broke into a warm grin. “You’re welcome, John,” he said, and leaned down to clasp him in a hug. John reciprocated gladly, his heart pounding as he breathed in the sweet, musky scent of the Hufflepuff boy. Then, before he had a chance to lose his nerve, he slipped a shy kiss onto Cedric’s cheek. Cedric pulled back and placed the fingers of one hand gently on the side of John’s face, his grey eyes full of – dare John think it? – affection.

“Remember,” he said, tapping the scrap of parchment in John’s hand.

“Promise,” John nodded.

 

It wasn’t until half-past eleven that John found himself being roughly shaken awake by his best friend, his hard fingers digging into John’s arm.

“Wake up!” he hissed. “Come on, now!”

“Whassup?” John said blearily, scrubbing at his eyes and peering at Sherlock, who looked as though his brain was on overdrive.

“We have to go to Dumbledore!” Sherlock insisted, trying to drag John out of bed by the sleeve of his pyjamas. “Right now.”

“Why?”

“I know how he did it,” Sherlock said, forcing John’s arms through the sleeves of his dressing-gown and pulling him from the room. “More importantly, I know why he did it.”

The Fat Lady seemed much affronted by being disturbed twice so late at night, and the security trolls outside the portrait hole looked suspiciously at the two boys as they walked past, but Sherlock didn’t seem to notice or care.

“Now, listen,” Sherlock said. John noticed he’d put his slippers on the wrong feet in excitement. “Remember when Molly corrected me on saying Weasley’s rat had a missing toe rather than finger? Well, that stuck in my mind so badly it was driving me insane. My cousin Isabella was a student here at the same time that Black was, and I remember her showing me one of the old yearbooks from when she was in Seventh Year. Mind-numbingly tedious, of course, but I remember seeing a photograph depicting Sirius Black with three other students – James Potter—”

“Harry’s dad was friends with Black?!”

“Yes, but that doesn’t matter. James Potter, Remus Lupin—”

“Professor Lupin too?!” 

“Yes, will you shut up! The last person in the picture was Peter Pettigrew.”

“Who’s that?”

“He was the man witnesses claimed to see duel with Black before he was murdered along with half the street,” Sherlock explained. “He was blown to bits, the largest fragment found being a finger.”

“Oh God,” John said, feeling queasy.

“Yes, yes, but!” Sherlock continued. “Who do we know of who has a finger missing?”

John stared at him. “Sherlock – are you suggesting that Ron’s rat—”

“It makes perfect sense, John!” Sherlock raved. “Pettigrew didn’t die! He transformed himself into a rat to escape Black!”

“Sherlock, that couldn’t possibly—”

“Lupin was in the picture too, yes?” Sherlock went on, ignoring John’s interjection. “And as we know, he is a werewolf. Isabella said Black and Potter’s father were two of the cleverest students in their year, and would have done anything to help their friend. What if they discovered he was a werewolf, and became Animagi? Pettigrew could become a rat, and Black could be an animal too, which would explain how he escaped from Azkaban.”

“How?”

“Dementors are blind, John. They can’t see – they only feel human suffering. Black could have transformed into whichever animal he became, slipped through the bars and swam to land. He must have known somehow that Pettigrew was alive and wanted to exact his revenge for framing him.”

“So you’re saying Black’s innocent?!”

“Almost certainly,” Sherlock said. “And with all the grounds and surrounding areas to explore whilst in their Animagi forms, who’s to say Black and the others couldn’t have found secret ways through which to enter the castle? It’s the only theory that proves why he tried to attack Weasley. Only he wasn’t, of course – he was trying to get Pettigrew, not knowing he’d already made his escape by faking his death for a second time.”

“That’s amazing, Sherlock!” John gasped as they hurtled down another dark corridor. 

“Thank you, John.”

They turned the corner and found themselves at the end of the hall that led to the Hospital Wing. 

“Why’re we here?” John asked.

“I passed Snape and Cornelius Fudge on the way to Gryffindor Tower,” Sherlock said. “They said Potter was in the Hospital Wing with Weasley and Granger and Black had been captured. Dumbledore must be here somewhere.”

They crept along the corridor towards the main doors to the ward, but had to flatten themselves against the wall as the breathless figures of Harry and Hermione came racing past them. They didn’t seem to notice Sherlock and John standing right there.

“Okay, I can hear Dumbledore,” said Hermione. “Come on, Harry!”

The doors of the Hospital Wing opened and Professor Dumbledore backed out of them, talking in a low voice to someone inside the room. He turned and saw Harry and Hermione dashing towards him. “Well?” he said.

“We did it!” Harry gasped. “Sirius has gone, on Buckbeak.”

“Buckbeak – the hippogriff that attacked Malfoy?” John wondered aloud.

Sherlock pressed a finger to his lips. “Shh.”

Harry and Hermione had stepped inside the hospital dormitory, and Dumbledore magically locked the large white doors.

“Did you want something of me, gentlemen?” he asked to the air in front of him.

“I think he means us,” John muttered, and Sherlock gave him a condescending look.

Dumbledore turned and looked directly at where they were concealed in the shadows. “You do realise of course that wandering the school corridors at night is a rather serious matter.”

“Yes, sir,” Sherlock said, stepping forward into the lamplight. “But I have something important to tell you.”

Dumbledore surveyed Sherlock over the rims of his half-moon spectacles. “Fire away,” he said.

He listened to Sherlock’s deductions without interruption, his expression of polite interest never wavering, and when Sherlock finally ran out of steam, John swore he could see a twinkle in his eye.

“Very impressive indeed, Mr. Holmes,” he said in a low voice. “I must say, along with Miss Granger and a couple of other choice candidates, you might possibly be the most remarkably intellectual students I’ve yet to come across.”

John could see Sherlock’s chest swell with unavoidable pride, and suppressed a smirk.

“However,” Dumbledore said. “Luckily enough your findings were also confirmed by Mr. Potter, Mr. Weasley and Miss Granger not but a few minutes ago. Though, of course, they had the opportunity to hear them from Black’s own lips.”

Sherlock deflated.

“Be that as it may,” Dumbledore smiled at Sherlock’s clear disappointment, “your detective skills are most admirable, and were you to have found me but an hour sooner than you did they would have undoubtedly been of great value to the events of this evening. For this, I think perhaps twenty points to Ravenclaw.”

“Could you not make it to Gryffindor, sir?” Sherlock said. 

“My,” Dumbledore raised his bushy eyebrows. “You are an interesting young man. Very well – twenty points to Gryffindor.”

“Thank you, sir,” Sherlock bowed in respect to the headmaster. John, feeling a little foolish, followed suit.

“At ease, gentlemen,” Dumbledore chuckled. “Now, I think it perhaps best if you both head back to your dormitories, and mind you don’t run into our esteemed caretaker.”

 

The next couple of days passed in a flurry of sun and anticipation to the end of the year. John, Molly and Sherlock all received passing grades in their exams, albeit by the skin of their teeth in the case of Sherlock’s Astronomy test and John’s History of Magic essay. It seemed like no time at all until they were once again loading their trunks and owls onto the Hogwarts Express for the return journey. Both Molly and Greg listened in awe as John regaled them with Sherlock’s discovery of Sirius Black’s innocence, while the great genius himself – now bored of the subject – stared idly out of the window as the train rolled away from Hogsmeade station. All four of them took a moment to take in the view of the castle they wouldn’t be seeing for another two months, and Molly sighed.

“It always feels strange leaving,” she said.

“Yeah,” Greg said. “Still, maybe we could all get together in the summer.” He seemed to be talking to Molly more than anyone else, but John still nodded politely.

They pulled into Platform Nine and Three-Quarters just as the clock struck three, and they all piled off to be hugged and kissed by their parents. John caught a brief glimpse of Cedric being embraced by his mother, before he was masked by the crowd. He brushed his fingers against the parchment tucked into his jacket pocket and remembered his promise. Who knew? Perhaps next year things might be different between him and Cedric – different for the better. One thing was certain at Hogwarts – you never knew what might be just round the corner.

He’d have to wait and see.


End file.
